DRIVERS 
CHILDREN 


RUTH 

-BNEI 

STUART 


/ 


THE  RIVER'S  CHILDREN 


Upon  the  brow  of  the  levee ' 


THE 
RIVER'S  CHILDREN 


AN   IDYL  OF  THE 
MISSISSIPPI 


BY 

KUTH  McENERY   STUART 

i  \ 

AUTHOR  OP  "SONNY,"  "HOLLY  AND  PIZEN,"  "  MORI  AH 's 
MOURNING,"  "NAPOLEON  JACKSON,"  ETC. 


Iditb  pictures  62 
.  E&warba 


NEW   YORK 
THE   CENTURY    CO. 

1904 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

Copyright,  1903,  by 
PHELPS  PUBLISHING  Co. 


Published  October,  1904 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS 


LIST  OP  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Upon  the  brow  of  the  levee       .         Frontispiece 

Gangs  of  men,  reinforcing  suspicious 
danger  points  with  pickax  and  spade  7 

Sipped  iced  orange  syrup  or  claret 
sangaree 77 

The  brave,  unthinking  fellow,  after  em 
bracing  his  beloved,  dashed  to  the 
front 87 

Her  arms  were  about  his  knees  .  103 


M35659 


PART  FIRST 


THE  RIVER'S  CHILDREN 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE 
MISSISSIPPI 


PART   FIRST 


THE  Mississippi  was  flaunting  itself 
in  the  face  of  opposition  along  its 
southern  banks.  It  had  carried  much 
before  it  in  its  downward  path  ere  it 
reached  New  Orleans.  A  plantation 
here,  a  low-lying  settlement  there,  a 
cotton-field  in  bloom  under  its  brim, 
had  challenged  its  waters  and  been 
taken  in,  and  there  was  desolation  in 
its  wake. 

In  certain  weak  places  above  and  be 
low  the  city,  gangs  of  men— negroes 
mostly— worked  day  and  night,  rein 
forcing  suspicious  danger-points  with 
pickax  and  spade.  At  one  place  an 
imminent  crevasse  threatened  life  and 
property  to  such  a  degree  that  the 
workers  were  conscripted  and  held  to 
[3] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

their  posts  by  promises  of  high  wages, 
abetted  by  periodical  passage  along  the 
line  of  a  bucket  and  gourd  dipper. 

There  was  apparently  nothing  worse 
than  mirth  and  song  in  the  bucket. 
Concocted  to  appeal  to  the  festive  in 
stinct  of  the  dark  laborers  as  much  as 
to  steady  their  hands  and  sustain  cour 
age,  it  was  colored  a  fine  pink  and  floated 
ice  lumps  and  bits  of  lemon  when  served. 
Yet  there  was  a  quality  in  it  which 
warmed  as  it  went,  and  spurred  pickax 
and  spade  to  do  their  best— spurred  their 
wielders  often  to  jest  and  song,  too,  for 
there  was  scarcely  a  secure  place  even 
along  the  brimming  bank  where  one 
might  not,  by  listening,  catch  the  sound 
of  laughter  or  of  rhythmic  voices  : 

"  Sing,  nigger,  sing !    Sing  yo'  hymn ! 
De  river,  she  's  a-boomin'— she  's  a-comin 

che-bim ! 
Swim,  nigger,  swim ! 

"  Sing,  nigger,  sing !    Sing  yo'  rhyme  ! 
De  waters  is  a-floodin'— dey  's  a-roarin'  on 

time ! 
Climb,  squirrel,  climb  ! " 

[4] 


THE  RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

At  this  particular  danger-spot  just 
below  the  city,  a  number  of  cotton-bales, 
contributed  by  planters  whose  fortunes 
were  at  stake,  were  placed  in  line  against 
a  threatening  break  as  primary  support, 
staked  securely  down  and  chained  to 
gether. 

Over  these  were  cast  everything 
available,  to  raise  their  height.  It  was 
said  that  even  barrels  of  sugar  and 
molasses  were  used,  and  shiploads  of 
pig-iron,  with  sections  of  street  rail 
ways  ripped  from  their  ties.  Then  bar 
rels  of  boiling  tar,  tarpaulins,  and  more 
chains.  And  then— 

And  then  there  were  prayers— and 
messages  to  the  priests  up  at  the  old 
St.  Louis  Cathedral,  where  many  of  the 
wives  were  kneeling— and  reckless  gifts 
of  money  to  the  poor. 

A  few  of  the  men  who  had  not  entered 
church  for  years  were  seen  to  cross 
themselves  covertly ;  and  one,  a  con 
vivial  Creole  of  a  rather  racy  reputation, 
was  even  observed,  through  the  sudden 
turn  of  a  lantern  one  night,  to  take 
[5] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

from  his  pocket  a  miniature  statue  of 
St.  Joseph,  and  to  hold  it  between  his 
eyes  and  the  sky  while  he,  too,  crossed 
himself.  And  the  boon  companion  who 
smiled  at  the  sight  did  himself  make 
upon  his  own  breast  a  tiny  sign  of  the 
cross  in  the  dark,  even  as  he  moved 
toward  his  friend  to  chaff  him.  And 
when,  in  turning,  he  dimly  descried  the 
outline  of  a  distant  spire  surmounted 
by  a  cross  against  the  stars,  he  did  rev 
erently  lift  his  hat. 

"It  can't  do  any  harm,  anyhow,"  he 
apologized  to  himself ;  but  when  he  had 
reached  his  friend,  he  remarked  dryly: 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Felix, 
dat  you  pray  to  St.  Joseph  yet,  you 
old  sinner  !  Excuse  me,  but  dose  pass 
ing  lantern,  dey  give  you  away." 

"Pray  to  St.  Joseph?  I  would  pray 
to  de  devil  to-night,  me,  Adolphe,  if  I 
believed  he  would  drive  de  river  down." 

"Sh!  Don't  make  comparison  be 
tween  St.  Joseph  an'  de  devil,  Felix. 
Not  to-night,  anyhow." 

"I  di'n' done  dat,  Adolphe.  No!  Pas 
[6] 


Gangs  of  men,  reinforcing  suspicion.^  dajhg'nrjppiris^ 
pickax  and  spade  " 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

du  tout.  Not  at  all.  H'only,  I  say,  me, 
I  would  pray  to  de  devil  if  he  could  help 
us  out." 

He  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders  as  he  added  recklessly: 

"Yas,  I  would  be  one  mud-catfish 
caught  on  his  forked  tail  —  just  for  to 
night—an'  let  him  drag  me  behind  him 
in  de  river,  if—" 

"But  you  mus'  ricollec',  de  devil  he 
don't  play  wid  water,  Felix.  Fire  is  his 
—fire  an'  brimstone—" 

«Ah-h-h!  Bah,Adolphe!  Who  is  try 
ing  to  talk  sense  to-night?  Dose  row 
of  warehouse  yonder,  dey  are  all  full,  an' 
on  my  one  pair  shoulder.  My  liT  crop 
is  not'ing.  I  got  in  doze  warehouse, 
waiting  for  a  sure  rise  in  de  market— 
all  on  my  obs^nate  judgment— every- 
t'ing  of  my  brudder,  my  free  cousin,  my 
wife,  my  mud'-in-law,—just  t'ink!— not 
to  speak  about  t'irty-five  or  forty  small 
consignment.  Sure!  I  would  pray  to 
anything  to-night —to  save  dem.  I  would 
pray  to  one  crawfish  not  to  work  dis 
way.  Dem  crawfish  hole  is  de  devil. 

[9] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

"But  dat  St.  Joseph  in  my  pocket! 
My  mudder,  I  am  sure  she  put  it  dere. 
She  an'  my  sisters,  dey  will  all  kneel 
many  hours  at  deir  prie-dieux  to-night 
— po'  t'ings!" 

"An'  yo'  wife— she  also,  of  co'se— " 

"My  wife?"  The  man  chuckled.  "Pff! 
Ah,  no !  She  is  at  de  opera.  She  knows 
I  am  watching  de  river.  She  believe 
it  cannot  run  over  so  long  I  watch  it. 
I  married  her  yo'ng.  Dat  's  de  bes' 
way. 

"Mais,  tell  de  trut',  Adolphe,  I  am 
going  to  church,  me,  after  dis.  Dere 's 
not'ing,  after  all,  like  God  to  stand  in 
wid  you!  You  hear  me,  I  tell  you  to 
night  de  rizzen  our  women  keep  good 
an'  happy— it  is  faith.  You  know  da  's 
true." 

"  Yas,  I  believe  you,  Felix.  An'  me,  I 
t'ink  I  will  go,  too.  Any'ow,  I  '11  show 
up  at  Easter  communion.  An'  dat 's  a 
soon  promise,  too.  T'ree  week  las?  Sun 
day  it  will  be  here. 

"  All  my  yard  is  w'ite  wid  dem  Easter 
lilies  already.  Dis  soon  spring  compel 
[10] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

dem.  Wen  you  smell  doze  Bermudas 
above  de  roses  in  your  garden  in  de 
middle  of  Lent,  look  out  for  Old  Lady 
Mississippi.  She  is  getting  ready  to 
spread  her  flounces  over  yo'  fields— 

"Yas,  an'  to  dance  on  yo'  family 
graves.  You  may  say  w'at  you  like, 
Adolphe— de  ruling  lady  of  dis  low  val 
ley  country,  it  is  not  de  Carnival  Queen; 
it  is  not  de  first  lady  at  de  Governor's 
Mansion.  It  is— let  us  raise  our  hats- 
it  is  Old  Lady  Mississippi !  She  is  de  rul 
ing  lady  of  de  Gulf  country— old  mais 
forever  yo'ng. 

"In  my  riZigion  I  have  no  supersti 
tion.  I  swallow  it  whole— even  w'en  I 
mus'  shut  my  nose— I  mean  hoi'  my 
eyes.  W'at  is  de  matter  wid  me?  I 
cannot  talk  straight  to-night.  Mais  to 
speak  of  de  river,  I  mus'  confess  to  you 
dat  even  w'en  it  is  midsummer  an'  she 
masquerade  like  common  dirty  waters, 
I  propitiate  her. 

"  Once,  I  can  tell  you,  I  was  rowing  one 
skiff  across  by  de  red  church,  an'  sud 
denly—for  w'y  I  di'  n'  see  immedi- 

[11] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

ately— mais  out  of  de  still  water,  mixed 
into  bubbles  only  by  my  oars,  over  my 
hand  came  one  big  wave.  I  looked  quick, 
but  I  could  see  only  de  sun  to  blind  my 
eyes.  Mais  you  know  w'at  I  did? 

"Dat  bright  sun,  it  reflect  a  small 
stone  in  my  ring,  one  diamond,  an'  quick 
I  slip  it  off  an'  drop  it.  It  was  de  river's 
petition,  an'  w'at  is  a  sixty-five-dollar 
diamond  to  a  man  w'en— " 

"  Dey  ain'  got  no  insanity  in  yo'  fam 
ily,  I  don't  t'ink,  Felix?  Otherwise- 
excuse  me— I  would  be  oneasy  for  you." 

Adolphe  was  smiling,  and  he  mischie 
vously  lifted  one  brow  and  drew  up  his 
lips  as  if  to  whistle. 

Felix  smiled,  too,  as  he  replied: 

"You  need  n't  fear  for  me,  Adolphe. 
Mais  strong-headed  ancestors,  dey  are 
not'ing.  Me,  I  could  start  a  crazy  line 
just  as  well  as  my  great-gran'f odder. 
Everyt'ing  mus'  begin  somewhere." 

But  he  added  more  seriously: 

"Non,  I  would  do  it  again— if  I  was 
on  such  a  trip.  I  tell  you  w'at  time  it 
was;  it  was—" 

[12] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

He  dropped  his  voice  and  looked  over 
his  shoulder. 

"You  want  to  know  w'at,  precisely,  I 
was  doing  at  de  moment  de  river  de 
mand  my  ring  ?  /  was  praying  to  her  ! 
Sure!"  (This  last  in  a  whisper.) 

"Oh-h-h!"  Adolphe's  face  lit.  "Yas, 
I  understand.  I  ricollec'.  You  mean 
about  five  year  pas'— dat  time  yo'  sis 
ter  los'  'er  firs'  'usband,  w'en—?" 

"Yas,  exac'ly.  So  you  see  dat  pred 
icament  in  w'ich  I  was  placed  wid  de 
river.  I  never  liked  po'  Jacques  Re 
nault — ':  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"I  never  pro/ess  to  like  him,  mais 
he  was  my  brud'-in-law ;  an'  my  po' 
sister— you  know  Pelicite— she  is  my 
twin.  She  done  not'ing  but  cry,  cry, 
cry  for  fo'  days  an'  nights,  an'  pay  all 
'er  money  in  de  poor-box  to  find  him. 
An'  dey  tried  every  way  to  bring  him 
up.  So  me,  I  say  not'ing,  mais  w'en  de 
fif  day  is  come  I  loan  from  my  cousin 
Achilles  his  wide  skiff,  an'  I  start  out, 
an'  I  row  two  mile  below  w'ere  dey 
foun'  'is  clo'es  an'  hat,  an'  den  I  pull  up 

[13] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

again— an'  wid  every  stroke  I  pray  to  de 
river  to  grant  me  dat  satisfaction  to  find 
po'  Jacques  an'  to  lay  him  in  his  grave. 

"  Tell  you  de  trut',  maybe  I  am  a  sin 
ner  to  say  it,  mais  I  was  half  afraid  in 
my  heart  dat  maybe  Jacques  was  play 
ing  'possum  an'  some  day  he  would  come 
back ;  an'  w'en  somebody  is  dead— dat 's 
one  terrible  dread,  yas—to  get  such  a 
surprise,  especially  for  one  widow,  you 
understand.  It  is  a  restriction,  more  or 
less,  according  to—  Well,  never  mind. 

"  You  may  b'lief  me  or  not,  mais  w'en 
de  river  she  require  of  me  dat  ring,  lay 
ing  her  wet  hand  over  my  hand  like  to 
take  it,  at  de  same  time  she  turn  it 
to  de  sun— well,  I  am  not  stupid.  I 
dropped  it  quick  to  her,  an'  den  I  looked 
close,  yas,  on  de  water,  an'  immediately 
I  see  one— 

"You  said  jus'  now  you  saw  only  de 
glare  of  de  sun— 

"Exactly — an'  den,  naturally,  one  black 
spot  befo'  my  eye,  an'  I  t'ink  it  is  de 
sun  ;  mais— 

"Well,  't  is  a  disagreeable  picture. 

[14] 


THE  RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

Never  mind!  De  river  she  give  me  de 
swap,  an'  we  had  one  fine  funeral  de 
nex'  day;  an'  my  po'  sister  Felicite  had 
her  consolation. 

"So,  like  I  say,  w'at  consideration 
was  one  small  diamond  ring  for  such  a 
pleasure? 

"A  widow  widout  a  grave  is  like  a 
wind  in  Peb'uary— crying  always  for 
ever  aroun'  de  house,  wid  nowhere  to 
go,  an'  in  her  eyes  are  all  kinds  of 
weather.  Bff! 

"  It  is  great  consolation,  a  grave.  It 
is  a  half-way  station  between  de  home 
an'  de  church;  an'  a  widow  she  need  dat 
—for  a  w'ile. 

"Tell  you  de  trut',  w'en  I  take  time 
to  t'ink,  Adolphe,  sometimes  I  am 
ashame'.  So  long  I  am  prosperous  I 
am  all  for  dis  worl';  den,  w'en  somet'ing 
come,  like  now,  an'  t'row  me  on  my 
knees,  I  feel  cheap  befo'  God,  yas.  Mais, 
wid  de  river  so,  w'at  can  a  man  do  if  he 
cannot  pray  ?  So,  after  to-night's  expe 
rience,  I  am  at  home  wid  my  li'l'  family 
by  eleven  o'clock  every  night,  sure" 
[15] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

"'Ow  much  chillen  you  got  now, 
Felix?  You  go  too  fas'  for  my  'rit'- 
metic." 

"Oh,  no,  not  too  fas'— just  fas' enough. 
Only  nine  in  over  ten  year— mos'  eleven 
year.  Only  six,  by  right.  I  engage  for 
six;  mais  w'at  can  a  man  do  w'en  his 
lady  present  him  wid  one  extra,  once  in 
a  w'ile!  I  am  de  las'  one  to  make  remark 
on  her  for  dat,  too,  biccause  I  come  dat 
way  myself —following  behind  Felicite. 
Twins,  dey  run  in  some  families;  an'  you 
know  now  I  am  coming  to  like  dem. 
Dey  are  so  sociable,  twins." 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  you  have  plenty  occa 
sion  to  be  one  good  man." 

"  Occasion  !  I  am  blessed.  T'ink  all 
I  have  got  to  be  t'ankful!  I  got  my 
mudder,  my  mud'-in-law,  my  fad'-in- 
law— all  rtZigious  people  an'  good— an' 
nine  li'tl9  one,  like  six  stair-steps  wid 
free  landings  for  de  accommodation 
of  de  twins."  He  chuckled.  "  Yas,  an' 
I  am  going  to  be  good.  No  more  dem 
soubrette  supper  for  me.  An'  dem  danse 
de- 

[16] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

"  Mais  wait !     Wat  is  dat  ?  " 

A  bell  had  rung,  and  a  voice  was  call 
ing  out  the  depth  of  the  water  as  shown 
upon  a  graduated  scale  marked  low 
down  against  the  pier.  The  announce 
ment  was  half-hourly  now. 

"  Wat  he  say?  T'irteen  inches  an'  a- 
Dat  's  a  half-inch  fall.  T'ank  God! 
Maybe  St.  Joseph  an'  our  women  dey 
save  us  yet,  Adolphe." 

"Yas,  may&e.  Mais  I  t'ink  de  winter 
is  full  broke  in  Minnesota,  too.  No 
more  dat  confoun'  ice  to  melt.  I  looked 
sure  for  de  water  to  fall  down  yester 
day.  Any'ow,  one  half-inch  is  hope. 
Here,  take  one  cigar.  I  can  smoke,  me, 
on  dat  half-inch.  You  got  any  matches, 
Felix?  " 

In  finding  his  match-box  Felix's  fin 
gers  came  in  contact  with  the  tiny  sta 
tue  of  St.  Joseph  in  his  pocket,  but 
he  was  only  half  sensible  of  the  fact  in 
his  nervous  joy  over  the  slight  decline 
in  the  river. 

"  Hello !  Here  is  Harold  Le  Due ! "  he 
exclaimed,  as,  by  the  light  of  his  match, 
[17] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

he  chanced  to  catch  the  presentment 
of  a  distant  face  in  the  darkness. 

"Hello!  Come  along,  Harry,  an' 
smoke  one  cigar.  We  mus'  celebrate  dat 
insinuation  dat  de  river  is  falling.  Less 
dan  one  inch,  it  does  not  count,  except 
to  prove  she  is  hesitating;  an'  you 
know  de  ol'  saying,  'She  who  hesi 
tate'—'  Hello,  young  man!  You  are 
good  for  sore  eyes!" 

The  person  addressed  had  come  for 
ward  with  extended  hand. 

When  another  match,  lighting 
Adolphe's  cigar,  revealed  the  young 
man's  face  again,  there  was  something 
so  startling  in  its  wonderful  solemnity 
and  beauty  that  both  men  were  im 
pressed. 

"  You  won't  smoke?  An'  w'y?  Come! 
It  is  one  great  comfort,  a  li'l'  smoke. 
Here,  let  me—" 

He  presented  the  cigars  again. 

"Well,  I  thank  you,  but  excuse  me 
now."  Young  Le  Due  took  a  cigar  with 
a  smile.  "I  '11  enjoy  it  later,  maybe; 
but  not  until  we  see  a  little  further.  As 

[18] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

you  say,  a  half-inch  is  only  a  hint,  but 
it  is  a  good  one.  I  am  going  now  up  the 
coast,  where  trouble  waits,  and  I  may 
need  a  steady  hand  before  morning.  But 
I  think  the  worst  is  over.  Good  night— 
and  thank  you.  The  folks— they  are 
all  well?" 

"  Fine,  all  fine,  and  asking  always  for 
w'y  you  don't  come  to  see  dem." 

But  he  had  gone. 

The  eyes  of  both  men  followed  the 
retreating  figure  in  silence* 

It  was  Adolphe  who  spoke  at  last. 

"Ah-h-h!"  he  sighed.  "An'  yet  we 
complain  sometimes,  you  an'  me,  eh? 
I  am  t'irty-seven  years  old  an'  I  got 
t'irteen  heait'y  chillen  an'  two  gran'- 
chillen,  an'  my  wife— look  at  her, 
yo'nger  an'  happier  wid  every  one— 

"Oh,  I  wonder,  me,  sometimes,  dat 
God  don't  just  snatch  everyt'ing  away 
jus'  for  spite,  w'en  we  always  complain 
so. 

"  Did  you  take  occasion  to  notice  dat 
w'ite  hair  against  dat  yo'ng  face?    An' 
dey  say  he  never  mention  his  trouble." 
2  [19] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

"I  tell  you,  like  we  said,  Adolphe,  dat 
river  she  is— she  is—" 

He  threw  up  his  right  palm,  as  if  in 
despair  of  adequate  language. 

"  T'ink  of  coming  home  from  de  war, 
already  robbed,  to  find  all  gone —home, 
wife,  child,  family,  servants,  all  oblit 
erate',  an'  only  de  river's  mark,  green 
mold  an'  mildew,  on  de  walls  above  de 
mantel  in  de  house;  an'  outside  her 
still  face  under  de  sky  to  answer,  an' 
she  heed  no  questions.  She  is  called  de 
father  of  waters  ?  In  a  sense,  yas, 
maybe.  Mais,  no.  She  is,  I  tell  you,  de 
mother  of  trouble— an'  pleasure,  too. 

"  She  is,  after  all,  de  queen  of  dis  val 
ley,  an'  no  mistake— dat  river.  When 
she  need  fresh  ermine  for  her  robe, 
she  throw  it  over  our  cotton  fields—" 

"Yas,  an'  de  black  spots,  dey  are  our 
sorrows.  Dat's  not  a  bad  resemblance, 
no." 

The  speaker  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Pas'  eleven,"  he  said.    "Da'  's  good 
luck  w'en  she  start  to  fall  befo'  mid 
night.    Oh-h-h!    Mais  she  is  one  great 
[20] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

coquette,  yas.  She  keep  you  crazy  until 
she  get  tired  wid  you,  an'  den  she  slip 
away  an'  steal  her  beauty-sleep  befo'  de 
clock  strike  twelve." 

"You  t'ink  she  is  going  to  sleep  now? 
Maybe  she  fool  us  yet,  Adolphe." 

"Well,  maybe.  Mais  I  have  great 
hope.  She  begin  to  nod,  and  w'en  dat 
happen  to  a  woman  or  a  riv— " 

Conversation  was  suddenly  inter 
rupted  here  by  a  great  crash.  The  two 
men  started,  and,  turning,  saw  an  en 
tire  section  of  the  improvised  embank 
ment  fall  landward. 

Had  the  stress  of  the  moment  been 
less,  they  would  involuntarily  have  has 
tened  to  the  spot,  but  terror  fixed  them 
where  they  stood.  There  was  but  a  mo 
ment  of  suspense,— of  almost  despair, 
—but  it  seemed  an  eternity,  before  re 
lief  came  in  a  great  shout  which  sent 
vibrations  of  joy  far  along  the  bank, 
even  to  those  who  watched  and  worked 
on  the  right  bank  of  the  stream. 

It  had  been  only  a  "  dry  break."  The 
weights  thrown  in  upon  the  cotton  had 
[21] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

been  out  of  plumb,  and  had  pitched 
the  whole  structure  inward. 

The  uproar  following  this  accident 
was  long  and  loud,  and  had  not  sub 
sided  when  the  bell  rang  again,  and, 
with  tense  nerves  strained  to  listen,  the 
line  of  men  dropped  speech.  Instead  of 
calling  out  the  decreasing  depth,  as 
usual,  the  crier  this  time  shouted : 

"  Two  inches  down,  thank  God ! " 

Screams  of  joy,  not  unmixed  with 
tears,  greeted  this  announcement.  The 
strain  was  virtually  over. 

The  two  rich  men  who  had  stood  and 
talked  together  mopped  their  foreheads 
and  shook  hands  in  silence. 

Finally  it  was  the  older,  whom  we 
have  called  Adolphe,— which  was  not 
his  name  any  more  than  was  his  com 
panion's  Felix,— finally,  then,  Adolphe 
remarked  quite  calmly,  as  he  looked  at 
his  watch : 

"I  am  glad  dat  cotton  in  de  pile  is 
saved,  yas.  'T  is  not  de  first  time  de 
ol'  city  has  fought  a  battle  wid  cotton- 
bales  to  help,  eh, Felix?  All  dozefounda- 
[22] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

tion  bales  dey  belong  to  Harold  Le  Due. 
He  contribute  dem,  an'  make  no  condi 
tion.  All  dat  trash  on  top  de  cotton,  it 
catch  de  tar;  so  to-morrow  we  dig  it 
out  clean  an'  give  it  to  him  again— an' 
-an'- 

"Well-" 

He  looked  at  his  watch  again,  keep 
ing  his  eyes  upon  it  for  a  moment  before 
he  ventured,  in  a  lower  tone : 

"Well,  I  say,  Felix,  my  boy,  w'at  you 
say?" 

"I  di'n'  spoke.  W'at  you  say  your 
self,  Adolphe?" 

"<Well,'-dafs  all  I  said;  jus'  'well.' 
Mais  I  di'n'  finish.  I  begin  to  say,  I— 
Well,  I  was  just  finking.  You  know  to 
night  it  is  de  las9  opera— don't  you  for 
get.  No  danger  to  make  a  habit  on  a 
las9  night ;  ain't  dat  true?  For  w'y  you 
don't  say  somet'ing  ?  " 

"Ah-h-h!  Talk,  ol' man!  I  am  listen 
ing."  Felix  looked  at  his  watch  now. 
"An'  may&e  I  am  finking  a  li'P  bit,  too. 
Mais  go  on." 

"  Well,  I  am  finking  of  doze  strange 
[23] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

ladies.  I  am  sure  dey  had  many  vacant 
box  to-night.  Don't  you  t'ink  dey  need 
a  little  encouragement— not  to  leave 
New  Orleans  wid  dat  impression  of 
neglect?  We  don't  want  to  place  a 
stigma  upon  de  gay  ol'  town.  My  car 
riage  is  here,  an'  it  is  yet  time.  One 
hour,  an'  we  will  forget  all  dis  trouble. 
I  need  me  some  champagne  myself." 

Felix  chuckled  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"Ah-h-h!  Yi!  An' me,  too,  Adolphe. 
I  tol'  you  I  was  finking  also.  Mais  let 
us  sen'  de  good  news  home,  an'  let  doze 
women  off  deir  knees  an'  go  to  bed.  My 
mud'-in-law  she  is  de  devil  for  prayin', 
an'  she  is  poody  stout,  po'  t'ing! 

"  We  telegram  it.  Tell  dem  deir  pray 
ers  are  answered— de  water  is  down—" 

"An'  our  spirits  are  up,  eh?  An'  we 
will  be  home  in  de  morning,  w'en  de 
valuable  debris  is  removed" 

Felix  laughed  and  touched  his  friend 
in  the  ribs. 

"You  are  one  devil,  Adolphe.    Mais 
we  mus'  be  good  to  our  women." 
[24] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

"Sure!  I  am  going  to  return  dat 
compliment  you  paid  me  jus'  now.  You 
say  I  am  one  devil,  eh?  Bien!  An'  in 
response,  I  say,  Felix,  you  are  one  saint. 
You  hear  me!  I  say,  one  saint— wncan- 
onized !  Any  man  dat  will  telegram  a 
message  to  save  his  rich  mud'-in-law 
from  maybe  sudden  apoplexy,  he  is  one 
saint,  sure !  Mais  you  are  right.  We 
mus'  be  good  to  our  women.  A  happy 
wife  is  a  joy  forever!" 

He  laughed  again  as  he  added : 

"  Mais  de  debris !  Yi,  yi !  Dat  make 
me  smile.  You  ricollec'  de  las'  debris, 
w'en  Ma'm'selle  Koko— " 

"Ah,  yes,  Felix!  Sure,  I  remember. 
I  paid,  me,  I  know,  one  good  round  sum 
for  my  share.  Dat  was  one  terrible 
smash-up.  Two  dozen  champagne-glass ; 
one  crystal  decanter;  one  chandelier, 
also  crystal,  every  light  on  it  broke,  so 
we  had  to  put  off  de  gas;  an'— well,  de 
devil  knows  w'at  else. 

"Tell  de  trut',  I  don't  like  dat  dan 
cing  on  de  supper-table,  Felix.  'T  is 
super/?uous.  De  floor  is  good  enough. 
[25] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

An'  you  know,  w'en  a  lady  is  dancing 
on  a  table,  after  a  good  supper,  of  co'se 
every  glass  is  a  temptation  to  her  slip 
per.  An'  slippers  an'  wine-glasses— 
well,  to  say  de  least,  de  combination  it 
is  disastrous. 

"  So,  I  say,  de  floor  it  is  good  enough 
for  me.  It  seem  more  comme  ilfaut. 

"Mais  come  along.   We  will  be  late." 


[26] 


PART  SECOND 


PART   SECOND 

I 

"  Sing,  nigger,  sing  !    Sing  yo'  rhyme ! 
De  waters  is  a-floodin'— dey  's  a-roarin*  on 

time ! 
Climb,  squirrel,  climb  ! " 

FOR  several  miles,  when  the  night 
was  still  or  the  wind  favorable,  one 
could  follow  the  song,  accented  by  simul 
taneous  blows  of  implements  of  defense 
marking  the  measure. 

"  Sing,  nigger,  sing !    Sing  an'  pray ! 
OP  Death  is  on  de  water— he  's  a-ridin'  dis 

way ! 
Pray,  nigger,  pray  ! " 

Some  of  the  words  might  have  been 
elusive  had  they  been  unfamiliar,  but 
the  annual  agitation  kept  the  songs  of 
the  river  in  mind ;  and  even  in  safe  sec 
tions,  where  many  sat  in  peace  beside 
[29] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

the  rising  waters,  they  would  take  their 
pipes  from  their  lips  to  catch  up  the 
danger-songs  and  sympathetically  pass 
them  along.  Many  a  prayer  went  with 
them,  too,  from  humble  petitioners  who 
knew  whereof  they  prayed. 

Such  were  an  old  black  couple  who 
sat  one  night  upon  the  brow  of  the 
outer  levee  at  Carrollton,  since  become 
an  upper  district  of  far-reaching  New 
Orleans. 

In  strong  contrast  to  the  stirring 
scenes  enacting  below  the  city,  all  was 
peace  and  tranquillity  here.  A  strong, 
new  embankment,  securely  built  several 
hundred  feet  inland,  had  some  years  be 
fore  supplanted  the  outer  levee,  con 
demned  as  insecure,  so  that  the  white 
inhabitants  of  the  suburb  slept,  intelli 
gently  safe  behind  a  double  barrier,  for 
the  condemned  bank  had  stood  the 
stress  of  so  many  seasons  that  much  of 
the  low  land  lying  between  the  two  le 
vees  was  finally  occupied  by  squatters, 
mostly  negroes,  this  being  free  space, 
taking  no  rent  of  such  as  did  not  fear 
[30] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

the  ever-impending  mortgage  which 
the  river  held. 

Of  this  class,  quite  apart  from  others, 
might  have  been  seen  almost  any  even 
ing  the  old  couple,  Hannah  and  Israel, 
sitting  upon  the  brow  of  the  levee  near 
the  door  of  their  low  cabin,  while,  always 
within  call,  there  played  about  them  a 
fair-haired  little  girl  and  a  dog. 

When  the  beautiful  child,  followed  by 
the  dog,  a  fine  Irish  setter,  would  sud 
denly  emerge  in  a  chase  from  among 
the  woodpiles  about  the  cabin,  there 
was  a  certain  high-bred  distinction  in 
them  both  which  set  them  apart  from 
the  rest  of  the  picture. 

Sometimes  they  would  "play  too 
hearty,"  as  Mammy  expressed  it,  and 
she  would  call:  "Dat  '11  do  now,  Blos 
som!  Come  lay  down,  Blucher!"  and, 
followed  closely  by  the  dog,  the  child 
would  coddle  at  the  knees  of  the  woman, 
who  "  made  the  time  pass  "  with  stories. 
Sometimes  these  would  be  folk-tales 
brought  over  from  Africa,  or  reminis 
cences  of  plantation  life,  but  more  often, 
[31] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

feeling  her  religious  responsibility  to  the 
little  one,  old  Hannah  would  repeat  such 
Bible  stories  as  "  befitted  a  child's  mind," 
such  as  "Ab'um  an'  Isaac,"  "Eden's 
Gyarden,"  or  "  De  Prodigum  Son." 

Of  them  all,  the  Eden  story  was  easily 
favorite,  its  salient  mystery  features 
affording  fine  scope  for  the  narrator's 
power,  while  they  held  the  imaginative 
child  with  the  spell  of  all  good  wonder- 
tales.  We  get  these  stories  so  young 
and  grow  up  with  them  so  familiarly 
that  when  we  finally  come  into  a  reali 
zation  of  them  they  hold  no  possible 
surprise  and  so  their  first  charm  is  lost. 
Think  of  one  story  with  such  elements 
as  a  wonder-woman  rising  from  a  man's 
side  while  he  slept— a  talking  serpent, 
persuasive  in  temptation  as  insidious  in 
easy  approaches— a  flaming  sword  of 
wrath— a  tree  of  knowledge— and  the 
sounding  voice  of  God  as  he  walked 
through  the  garden  "in  the  cool  of  the 
day"!  Is  not  a  single  colloquialism  of 
so  venerable  ancestry  sufficient  to  dig 
nify  a  language? 

[32] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

Herself  a  classic  in  that  she  expressed 
the  eternal  quality  of  maternal  love 
incarnate,  the  old  woman  thus  uncon 
sciously  passed  along  to  the  object  of 
her  devotion  the  best  classic  lore  of  the 
ages.  And  sunrise  and  sunset,  star-  and 
moon-land,  and  their  reflection  in  the 
great  water-mirror,  were  hers  and  the 
child's,  without  the  asking.  Nor  were 
they  lost,  although  to  both  child  and 
woman  they  were  only  common  ele 
ments  in  life's  great  benediction. 

During  the  story-telling,  which  gen 
erally  lasted  until  the  sun  sank  across 
the  river,  but  while  its  last  rays  still 
made  "pictures  of  glory  in  the  heavens  " 
with  the  water's  reflection,— pictures 
which  served  to  illustrate  many  a  nar 
ration,  to  inspire  the  speaker  and  im 
press  a  sensitive  child,— the  dog  would 
stretch  himself  facing  the  two,  and  his 
intelligent  and  quizzical  expression 
would  sometimes  make  Mammy  laugh 
in  a  serious  place  or  change  the  drift  of 
her  story.  Often,  indeed,  this  had  hap 
pened  in  the  telling  of  certain  animal 
[33] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

tales  which  Mammy  declared  Blucher 
knew  better  than  she  and  she  even  in 
sisted  that  he  occasionaly  winked  at  her 
and  set  her  right  when  she  went  wrong. 

In  the  early  dusk,  the  old  man  Israel 
would  come  trudging  in  from  the  water 
and  sometimes  he  would  light  his  pipe 
and  join  Mammy's  audience. 

Occasionally  Mammy  would  cook  the 
supper  in  the  open,  upon  a  small  char 
coal  furnace,  and  the" little  Miss"  would 
sup  from  a  tiny  low  table  brought  from 
the  cabin.  Here  she  was  served  by  the 
old  people  in  turn,  for  they  never  ate 
until  she  had  finished.  Then  the  little 
girl  was  carefully  undressed  and  sung 
to  sleep  with  one  of  Mammy's  velvet 
lullabies,  in  a  dainty  bed  all  her  own,  a 
berth  which  hung,  shelf-like,  against 
the  wall;  for  the  home  of  this  incon 
gruous  family  was  quite  as  novel  as  the 
family  itself. 

Part  of  the  ladies'  cabin  of  an  old  Mis 
sissippi  steamboat,  still  shabbily  fine  in 
white  paint  and  dingy  gilding,  which 
Israel  had  reclaimed  from  an  aban- 
[34] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

doned  wreck,  formed  a  wing  of  the  build 
ing.  This,  which,  with  its  furnishings, 
Mammy  called  "Blossom's  lay-out," 
communicated  by  a  door  with  a  "lean- 
to"  of  weather-stained  boards,  whose 
mud  chimney  and  homely  front  formed 
a  strong  contrast  to  the  river  entrance 
of  white  and  gold.  This  grotesque 
architectural  composite  would  have  at 
tracted  attention  at  another  time  or 
place,  but  as  one  of  a  class,  made  to  its 
need  of  any  available  material,  it  passed 
unnoticed  beyond  an  occasional  casual 
smile  of  amusement  and  sympathy. 

It  was  like  the  composite  toilets  of 
the  poor  blacks  during  the  hard  times 
suggestively  called  the  "  reconstruction 
period,"  when  old  women  in  soldier  coats 
and  boots,  topped  by  third-hand  fea 
thered  finery,  waited  at  the  distributing- 
station  for  free  rations.  No  one  ever 
thought  of  laughing  at  these  pathetic 
grotesques,  technically  freed  but  newly 
enslaved  by  bitter  circumstance. 

On  the  night  with  which  this  tale 
begins,  when  Mammy  had  put  Blossom 
[35] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

to  sleep  and  tucked  the  mosquito-bar 
snugly  around  her,  she  went  back  to  her 
place  beside  her  husband,  and,  lighting 
her  pipe,  sat  for  a  long  time  silent.  This 
was  so  unusual  that  presently  Israel 
said: 

"  What  de  matter  wid  you  dis  evenin', 
Hannah?  Huccome  you  ain't  a-talkin'?  " 

Hannah  did  not  answer  immediately. 
But  after  a  time  she  said  slowly: 

"I  's  jes  a-speculatin',  Isrul— jes 
speculatin'."  And,  after  another  pause, 
she  added,  quite  irrelevantly: 

"  Is  you  got  yo'  swimp-sacks  all  set?  " 

"In  co'se  I  is."  Israel's  words  came 
through  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

"An'  yo'  oars  brung  in?" 

"In  co'se  I  is!" 

" An' deskift  locked?" 

"In  co'se  I  is!" 

"An'Blucherfed?" 

"  What 's  de  matter  wid  you,'  Hannah? 
You  reckon  I  .gwine  forgit  my  reg'lar 
business?" 

The  old  woman  smoked  in  silence  for 
some  minutes.   Then  she  said: 
[36] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

"Isrul!" 

"What  you  want,  Hannah?" 

"I  say,  Isrul,  I  got  some'h'n'  on  my 
mind.  Hit 's  been  on  my  mind  more  'n 
a  yeah,  an'  hit 's  a-gittin'  wuss." 

"What  is  it,  Hannah?" 

"You  an'  me  we  's  growin'  ole,  Isrul 
-ain't  dat  so?" 

"Yas,  Hannah." 

"An'  we  ain't  got  long  to  stay  heah, 
hey,  Isrul?" 

"Yas,  ol'  'oman— can't  dispute  dat." 

"  An' "  —  hesitatingly.  "  You  knows 
what 's  on  my  mind,  Isrul!" 

"Hit  's  on  my  mind,  too,  Hannah. 
You  don't  need  to  'spress  yo'se'f.  Hit 's 
on  my  mind,  day  an'  night." 

"  What  's  on  yo'  mind,  Isrul?" 

The  old  man  began  stirring  the  bowl 
of  his  pipe  absently. 

"'Bout  we  gittin'  ol',  Hannah,  an' 
maybe  some  day  we  '11  drap  off  an'  leave 
Marse  Harol's  chile  all  by  she  se'f,  like 
de  chillen  in  de  wilderness. 

"What  mek  you  mek  me  say  it, 
Hannah ?  You  knows  what  'sponsibility 
[37] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

Gord  done  laid  on  we  two.  Ain't  we  done 
talked  it  over  a  hond'ed  times  'fo' 
now?" 

"Dat  ain't  all  what  's  on  my  mind, 
Isrul." 

"  What  else  is  you  got  to  fret  yo'se'f 
about,  Hannah?  Ain't  I  mekin'  you  a 
good  livin'?  Ain't  you  had  de  money  to 
put  a  new  little  silk  frock  away  every 
yeah  for  de  Blossom,  and  ain't  dey  all 
folded  away,  one  a-top  de  yether,  'g'inst 
de  answer  to  our  prayers,  so  her  daddy  '11 
see  her  dressed  to  her  station  when  he 
comes  sudden?  Ain't  you  got  a  one 
way-silk  alapaca  frock  an'  a  good  bon 
net  for  yo'se'f  to  tek  de  chile  by  de 
han'  wid— when  Gord  see  fitten  to  an 
swer  us?  You  ain't  hongry—or  col9,  is 
yer?" 

"  G'  way,  Isrul !  Who 's  studyin'  about 
victuals  or  clo'es!  I  's  ponderin'  about 
de  chile,  dat  's  all.  'T  ain't  on'y  'bout 
we  gittin'  ol'.  She  's  gittin'  tall.  An' 
you  know,  Isrul,  you  an'  me  we  ain't 
fitten  to  raise  Marse  Harol's  chile. 
She  's  big  enough  to  study  quality  man- 
[38] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

ners  an'  white  behavior.  All  Marse 
HaroFs  fam'ly's  chillen  knowed  all  de 
fancy  high  steps  an'  played  scales  on  de 
pianner  wid  bofe  hands  at  once-t,  time 
dey  was  tall  as  Blossom  is— an'  dey 
made  dancin'-school  curtsies,  too.  I 
taken  notice,  Blossom  is  sort  o'  shy,  an' 
she  gittin'  so  she  '11  stand  off  when  any 
body  speaks  to  her.  Dis  heah  cabin  on 
de  river-bank  ain't  no  place  for  my  white 
folks.  I  sho'  is  pestered  to  see  her  git- 
tin'  shy  an'  shamefaced— like  po'  folks. 
Modest  manners  and  upright  behavior 
is  her  portion.  I  know  it  by  heart,  but 
I  can't  show  it  to  her— I  know  it  by 
knowledge,  but  of  co'se  I  can't  perform 
it;  an'  it  frets  me." 

"Hannah!" 

"What  is  it,  Isrul?" 

"Who  gi'n  us  dis  'sponsibility?  Is 
we  axed  for  it?" 

"  No,  Isrul,  we  ain't  axed  for  it." 

"Ain't  you  an'  me  promised  Mis' 
Agnes,  de  day  she  died,  to  keep  his 
chile,  safe-t  an'  sound,  tell  Marse  Harol' 
come?" 

[39] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

"Dat  's  six  yeahs  past,  dis  comin' 
Christmus,  Isrul.  I  b'lieve  Marse  Harol' 
done  dead  an'  gone." 

"Huccome  you  believe  he  dead?  Is 
he  come  to  you  in  de  sperit?" 

"  No,  he  ain't  come,  an'  dat  's  huccome 
hope  stays  wid  me.  If  he  was  free  in  de 
sperit  Ian'  he  sho' would  come  an' gimme 
a  sign.  But  reason  is  reason,  an'  ef  he 
ain't  dead,  huccome  he  don't  come  an' 
look  arter  his  chile?  My  white  folks 
warn't  nuver  shirkers— nor  deserters. 
So,  when  I  stays  off  my  knees  awhile 
an'  casts  away  faith  in  de  unseen,  seem 
dat  my  horse-sense  hit  gives  me 
trouble.  An'  den,  like  to-night,  some 
how  my  courage  sinks,  an'  look  like  I 
kin  see  him  dead  an'  forgot  in  some  ol' 
ditch  on  de  battle-field. 

"Jes  s'posin'  dat  's  de  trufe,  Isrul, 
what  we  boun'  to  do  wid  Blossom?" 

"Hannah!" 

"Yas,  Isrul." 

"  You  done  beared  a  plenty  o'  preach- 
in',  ain't  yer?" 

"Yas,  Isrul." 

[40] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

"  Is  you  ever  beared  a  preacher  preach 
'bout  s'posin'  ?  " 

"No,  Isrul." 

"  But  I  tell  you  what  you  is  hearn  'em 
preach  about.  You  hearn  'em  preach 
about  watchin'  an'  pray  in'." 

"  Dat  's  so,  Isrul,  but  yit'n  still,  you 
know  de  scripture  say  'Hope  referred 
meketh  de  heart  sick.'  You  ricollec' 
dat,  don't  you?" 

"Yas,  but  dat  's  a  side-track.  Dat 
ain't  got  nothin'  to  do  wid  answer  to 
prayer.  Dat  's  jes  to  give  comfort  to 
weary  souls,  when  de  waitin'-time  is 
long;  dat  's  all.  Dey  may  git  sick  at 
heart— jes'  waitin'." 

"You  right,  Isrul." 

"  Well,  an'  arter  watchin'  an'  prayin', 
dey  's  one  mo'  thing  needful.  An'  dat 's 
faith. 

"Ef  we  watches  for  Marse  Harol'  to 
come,  an'  prays  for  'im  to  come,  an' 
don't  trus'y  you  reckon  Gord  gwine  to 
bother  wid  us?  " 

"  I  tries  to  trus',  Isrul,  an'  mos'  days 
I  does  look  for  Marse  HaroP.  Many  's 

[41] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

de  time  I  done  taken  Blossom  by  de  hand 
an'  walked  along  de  levee  an'  looked 
down  in  de  Ca'ollton  gyarden  while  de 
ban'  played,  an'  jes  fairly  scroochinized 
my  ol'  eyes  out,  hopin'  to  reconnize  'im 
in  de  dance.  I  'm  dat  big  a  fool  in  faith 
—I  sho'  is.  An'  I  tries  de  best  I  kin  to 
keep  my  faith  warm,  so  de  good  Lord  '11 
see  it  glowin'  like  a  live  coal  in  my  heart 
an'  he  '11  'member  hisse'f  about  de  chile 
an'  sen'  'er  daddy  home,  sen'  yer  daddy 
home  !  My  Gord,  I  say,  SEN'  'ER  DADDY 
HOME!  I  tries  continu'sly,  Isrul." 

"You  must  n't  talk  about  tryin',  Han 
nah.  You  mus'  jes  b'lieve  it,  same  as  a 
little  chile— same  like  you  see  it ;  an'  den 
you  does  see  it.  An'  when  you  git  along 
so  fur  dat  you  sees  wid  de  neye  o'  faith, 
Gord  '11  sho'  mek  yo'  faith  good.  Ef 
faith  kin  h'ist  a  mountain  an'  shove  it 
along,  hit  can  fetch  a  man  home  whar 
he  b'longs;  an'  hit  '11  do  it,  too." 

"Isrul!" 

"What  is  it,  Hannah?" 

"Gord  ain't  nuver  promised  to  sen' 
Marse  Harol'  home,  as  I  knows  on." 
[42] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

"  He  's  promised  to  answer  de  prayer 
o' faith,  ain't  He?" 

"Yas,  Isrul,  dat  's  so.  Pray  Him  to 
strenken  my  faith,  ol'  man.  You  stays 
so  much  on  de  water  wid  de  sky  in  yo' 
eyes,  whilst  I  works  'mongst  de  wood 
piles,  so  close  to  de  y earth— seem  like 
maybe  you  mought  git  nigher  to  Gord  'n 
what  I  'm  enabled  to  do.  Pickin'  up 
chips,  hit  's  lowly  work  an'  hit  keeps 
yo'  face  down,  an'—" 

"Don't  say  dat,  ol'  'oman!  Use  yo' 
fo'sight  an'  'stid  o'  you  seein'  chips 
you  '11  see  kindlln'-wood.  Dat  what  dey 
is.  Dey  '11  lead  yo'  heart  upward  dat-a- 
way.  Heap  o'  folks  don't  see  nothin' 
but  money  in  de  river— money  an'  mud; 
an'  dey  don't  know  it 's  a  merror  some 
times,  full  o'  stars  an'  glory.  I  done 
read  Cord's  rainbow  promises  on  de  face 
o'  dat  muddy  river  more  'n  once-t,  when 
I  lifted  out  my  swimp-nets  on  a  still 
mornin'  whilst  de  sun  an'  de  mist  con 
sulted  together  to  show  a  mericle  to  a 
ol'  dim-eyed  nigger." 

"You  sho'  does  help  me  when  you 
[43] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

'splains  it  all  out  dat-a-way,  Isrul.  Pray 
like  a  gordly  man,  ol'  pardner,  an'  yo' 
ol'  'oman  she  gwine  talk  faith  strong 
as  she  kin— widout  turnin'  hycoprite." 

"Dat  's  right,  honey— ol'  'oman— 
dat  's  right.  You  pray  an'  /  'II  pray— 
an'  we  '11  watch  wid  faith.  An'  ef  Gord 
don't  sen'  Marse  Harol',  He  '11  git  a 
message  to  us  some  way,  so  we  '11  be 
guided." 

The  sound  of  a  horn  from  across  the 
river  put  an  end  to  the  conversation. 
Some  one  was  blowing  for  the  ferryman. 

"  PITY  you  tied  Wood-duck  up  so  soon 
to-night,"  said  the  old  wife,  following 
Israel  with  her  eyes  as  she  spoke, 
while  he  rose  slowly  and  taking  the  oars 
down  from  the  rafters  started  to  the 
river. 

In  a  moment  the  old  man's  answering 
horn  sounded  clear  and  loud  in  re 
sponse,  and  the  clank  of  the  chain  as  it 
dropped  in  the  bow  of  the  skiff,  followed 
by  the  rhythmic  sound  of  the  oar-locks, 
told  his  listening  mate  that  the  ferry 
man  was  on  his  way. 
[44] 


It 


"OESIDES  plying  the  ferry-skiff  at 
-L3  which  Israel  earned  odd  dimes— 
every  day  a  few— he  turned  many  an 
honest  penny  with  his  shrimp-nets. 

The  rafts  of  logs  chained  together  at 
the  landing  were  his,  and  constituted 
the  initial  station  of  a  driftwood  indus 
try  which  was  finally  expressed  in  the 
long  piles  of  wood  which  lay  stacked  in 
cord  measures  on  either  side  of  the 
cabin. 

The  low  and  prolonged  talk  of  the  old 
people  to-night  had  been  exceptional 
only  in  its  intensity.  The  woman's  re 
luctant  almost  despair  of  a  forlorn  hope 
was  pathetic  indeed.  Still  it  was  but 
momentary.  They  had  gone  over  the 
same  ground  many  times  before,  and 
fear  and  even  foreboding  had  occasion 
ally  clouded  their  vision  in  reviewing 
the  situation. 

[45] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

The  woman's  observation  in  regard 
to  the  child's  growing  tall  was  the  first 
suggestion  to  Israel's  mind  of  the  ur 
gency  of  immediate  relief.  In  the  stress 
of  material  provision,  men  may  be  for 
given  if  they  sometimes  overlook  life's 
abstract  values. 

Israel  was  so  startled  by  this  new 
thought  that  when  he  had  rowed  his 
boat  out  into  the  clearing  which  the 
broad  river  afforded,  he  involuntarily 
pressed  the  handles  of  his  oars,  lift 
ing  their  blades  from  the  water,  while 
he  turned  his  eyes  in  one  direction  and 
another  and  then  upward.  He  had 
a  hard  problem  to  solve.  Here  was  a 
great  thinking  space,  and  yet,  although 
he  stopped  for  the  length  of  several 
strokes,  and  the  night  was  mild  and 
still,— although  every  condition  was 
favorable  for  clear  thought,— his  mind 
seemed  lost  in  a  sort  of  maze,  and  it  was 
only  when  he  discovered  by  a  familiar 
landmark  that  he  was  drifting  fast 
down-stream,  only  with  this  obtrusion 
of  the  actual,  that  he  rallied  quickly, 
[46] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

and  with  a  deft  stroke  or  two  recovered 
his  course.  And  as  the  oar-locks  meas 
ured  time  again  he  chuckled: 

"  I  got  my  lesson,  yas,  I  got  my  lesson. 
Work!  Dat  's  my  po'tion.  Quick  as  I 
gits  biggoty  and  tries  to  read  above  my 
head,  I  goes  de  downward  way." 

He  said  it  aloud,  to  himself,  and  the 
words  gave  him  renewed  energy,  for, 
even  as  he  spoke,  the  Duck,  with  oars 
for  wings,  plunged  lightly  forward  over 
the  water  to  a  quickened  measure. 

rilHE  old  wife,  sitting  alone,  sleepless 
JL  always  when  her  man  was  making 
a  night  trip,  was  even  before  his  sum 
mons  to-night  painfully  awake.  It  was 
as  if  the  outcry  which  had  burst  the 
door  of  patience  had  set  her  old  mind 
free  to  wander.  She  seemed  to  have  a 
broader  vision,  a  new  perspective  upon 
a  situation  in  which  she  was  herself  the 
chief  conserving  factor.  While  she  kept 
the  child  within  her  door  well  in  her 
subconscious  care,  and  knew  by  her 
regular  breathing  that  she  slept:  while 
[47] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

she  felt  the  near  presence  of  the  dog  on 
guard  at  her  skirts'  hem,  her  conscious 
thoughts  were  far  away. 

Quickly  even  as  lightning  darts,  zig 
zagging  a  path  of  light  from  one  remote 
point  to  another  in  its  eccentric  course 
—her  dim  eyes  actually  resting  upon  the 
night  skies  where  the  lightnings  play  - 
she  traveled  again  in  her  musings  the 
arbitrary  paths  of  fate  from  one  crisis  to 
another  in  the  eventful  latter  years  of 
her  life.  Then  she  would  seem  to  see 
clear  spaces,  and  again  the  bolts  of  mis 
fortune  which  presaged  the  storm  of  sor 
row  out  of  which  had  come  her  present 
life. 

First  in  the  anxious  retrospect  there 
was  the  early  break  in  the  family  when 
the  boys  began  going  away  to  college; 
then  the  sudden  marriage  of  the  young 
est  of  the  three;  the  declaration  of  war; 
the  enlistment  of  the  two  elder  students 
in  the  voluntary  service  which  had 
transferred  their  names  from  the  uni 
versity  roster  to  the  list  of  martyrs. 

Another  dart  as  of  lightning,  and  she 
[48] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

saw  this  youngest  come  home  with  his 
fair  New  England  bride,  to  depart  with 
her  and  Israel  for  an  island  home  be 
yond  the  canebrakes,  and  on  the  heel  of 
this  divided  joy  came  his  passionate 
enlisting  "to  avenge  the  death  of  his 
brothers."  And  then— ah!  and  then— 
how  fast  the  zigzags  dart!  Rapid 
changes  everywhere  traced  in  fire,  and, 
as  memory  recalled  them,  throughout 
the  whole  was  ever  the  rolling  thunder 
of  artillery,  completing  the  figure. 

The  story  is  one  of  thousands,  indi 
vidualized,  of  course,  each,  by  special 
incidents  and  personalities,  but  the 
same,  every  one,  in  its  history  of  faith 
fulness  of  the  slave  people  during  the 
crucial  period  when  the  masters  had 
gone  to  battle,  leaving  their  wives  and 
babies  in  the  care  of  those  whose  single 
chance  of  freedom  depended  on  the  de 
feat  of  the  absent. 

Hannah  and  Israel  had  been  loved  and 

trusted  servants  in  the  family  of  old 

Colonel  Le  Due.   The  woman  had  nursed 

all  the  babies  in  turn,  Harold  being  the 

[49] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

last,   and    hence    her    own    particular 
"baby "for  all  time. 

BRAKE  ISLAND,  so  called  because 
of  its  situation  in  a  dense  cane- 
brake,  which  was  at  once  a  menace  and 
a  guard,  was  the  most  unpopular  part 
of  the  colonel's  large  estate,  albeit  there 
was  no  land  so  rich  as  its  fields,  no  wood 
better  stocked  with  game  than  the  nar 
row  forest  lying  close  along  its  north 
ern  limit,  no  streams  more  picturesque 
in  their  windings  or  better  equipped  for 
the  angler's  art  than  that  of  the  Bayou 
d'Iris,  whose  purple  banks  declared  the 
spring  while  the  robins  were  calling,  and 
before  the  young  mocking-birds  in  the 
crape  myrtles  opened  their  great  red 
mouths  for  the  wriggling  song-food  of 
the  bayou's  brim. 

All  the  Le  Due  sons  had  loved  to  go 
to  the  island  to  shoot  and  to  fish  while 
they  were  lads,  but  upon  attaining  the 
social  age  they  had  grown  to  despise  it 
for  its  loneliness.  The  brake  which 
fringed  its  borders  had  long  been  a  ref- 
[50] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

uge  for  runaway  negroes,  who  were 
often  forced  to  poach  upon  its  preserves 
for  food,  even  to  the  extent  of  an  occa 
sional  raid  upon  its  smoke-houses  and 
barns,  so  that  women  and  children  were 
wont  to  shudder  at  the  very  idea  of  liv 
ing  there.  Still  it  had  always  been  the 
declared  "favorite  spot  on  earth"  to 
the  colonel,  who  had  often  vowed  that  no 
son  of  his  should  own  it  and  spurn  it. 

He  lived  like  a  lord  himself,  it  is  true, 
on  a  broader  place  of  less  beauty  on  the 
bank  of  the  great  river,— "keeping  one 
foot  in  New  Orleans  and  one  on  the 
plantation,"  as  he  expressed  it,— and  it 
is  not  surprising  that  his  children  had 
laughingly  protested  against  being 
brought  up  on  house-parties  and  the 
opera  as  preparation  for  a  hermit's  life, 
even  in  "  Paradise." 

All  excepting  Harold.  While  the 
brothers  had  protested  against  the 
island  home,  he  had  said  little,  but 
when  he  had  brought  his  bride  home, 
and  realized  the  scant  affection  that 
stirred  the  hearts  of  his  family  at  sight 
[51] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

of  her  placid  New  England  face,  even 
while  he  himself  suffered  much,  know 
ing  that  her  brothers  were  enlisting  in 
the  opposing  armies  and  that  her  fam 
ily  felt  her  marriage  at  this  time  to 
a  slaveholder  as  a  poignant  sorrow- 
while  the  father  seemed  hesitating  as 
to  just  what  paternal  provision  he 
should  make  for  his  impulsive  boy,  the 
boy  himself,  in  a  sudden  towering  dec 
laration  of  his  manhood  and  of  resent 
ment  and  pride,  turned  upon  him: 

"Give  us  Brake  Island  and  Mammy 
and  Israel,  and  cut  us  loose!  And  I  '11 
show  my  people  a  new  variety  of  hermit 
life!" 

The  thing  was  quickly  done.  A  deed 
of  gift  made  on  the  spot  conveyed  this 
Eden  of  modern  times,  with  its  improve 
ments,  full  working  force  and  equip 
ment,  to  Harold  Guyoso  Le  Due,  who  in 
accepting  it  assumed  the  one  condition 
of  making  it  his  home. 


[52] 


Ill 


HAROLD  was  a  brilliant  fellow,  im 
pulsive  and  extravagant  as  he  was 
handsome  and  loving,  and  he  had  no 
sooner  taken  possession  of  his  Eden  than 
he  began  to  plan,  by  means  of  a  system 
of  engineering,  to  open  it  up  by  a  canal 
which  should  "span  the  brake  and  tap 
the  bayou,"  so  that  boats  of  size  and 
circumstance  might  enter.  Here  he 
would  have  a  launch  and  a  barge,  and 
the  great  world  of  culture,  of  wit,  of 
pleasure,  and  of  affluence  should  come 
in  splendor  "to  watch  a  hermit  herm," 
or,  as  he  as  often  put  it,  "to  help  a 
hummit  hum." 

A  great  house-party  was  quickly  ar 
ranged—a  party  of  gay  friends,  engi 
neers  chiefly,  bidden  for  a  freely  declared 
purpose— a  party  which  is  still  cher 
ished  in  the  annals  of  local  social  his 
tory  as  a  typical  example  of  affluent 
[53] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

ante-bellum  hospitality,  and  is  even  yet 
personally  recalled  by  a  few  old  men  who 
sit  and  seem  to  wait,  mostly,  in  shabby 
clothing  incongruously  ill  fitting  their 
gilded  reminiscence,  at  certain  dozing 
business  resorts  in  old  New  Orleans. 

Most  of  these  venerables  still  live  in 
their  shabby  ancestral  homes,  although 
it  may  be  their  women  take  boarders 
or  their  best  rooms  are  let  for  business 
purposes— cleared  of  their  cumbersome 
furnishings  of  mahogany  and  rosewood 
by  the  rising  waters  of  misfortune  which 
have  gradually  carried  them  into  the 
"  antique-shops  "  of  the  vicinity. 

A  place  of  honor  on  the  tax-lists  and 
a  waiting  palace  of  white  marble  in  the 
cemetery— these  querulous  witnesses 
to  distinction  and  of  permanency  are 
in  some  cases  the  sole  survivors  of  the 
many  changes  incident  upon  a  recon 
struction. 

To    these    gentle    reminiscers    the 

"  Brake  Island  house-party  of  Harold 

Le  Due"  is  even  yet  the  Procrustean 

bed  against  which  they  measure  all  the 

[54] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

ostentatious  pageantry  of  a  new  and 
despised  social  order. 

For  the  possible  preservation  of  a  bit 
of  local  color— gone  out  in  the  changed 
light  of  a  new  dispensation— behold  a 
hasty  sketch  of  this  long-ago  play 
time.  The  invitations  which  were  sent 
out,  naming  a  single  date  only,  with  the 
flattering  implication  that  the  visit  so 
urgently  desired  might  never  come  to 
an  end,— one  of  the  easy  fashions  of  the 
old  regime,— promptly  brought  a  dozen 
men,  with  as  many  women,  wives  and 
sweethearts,  to  the  "big  house"  beyond 
the  swamp. 

This  Southern  home,  which  was 
broadly  typical  of  its  class,  simple 
enough  in  its  architecture  in  that  its 
available  space, barring  the  watch-tower 
in  the  center  of  its  roof,  was  all  upon 
a  single  floor  and  its  material  the  in 
digenous  woods  of  the  forest,  yet  suf 
fered  no  diminution  in  being  called  the 
"big  house"— a  name  which  has 
been  made  to  serve  many  a  lesser 
structure  for  purposes  of  distinction. 
[55] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

Set  high  upon  brick  pillars,— there  are 
no  cellars  possible  in  the  Mississippi 
valley  country,— its  low,  spreading  form 
graced  the  easy  eminence  upon  which  it 
stood,  dominating  its  wide  demesne 
with  a  quiet  dignity  superior  to  that  of 
many  a  statelier  home. 

In  design  it  was  a  Greek  cross.  Sur 
rounded  on  all  sides  by  deep  balconies, 
ornate  with  cornice  and  Corinthian  col 
umns,  its  four  arms  afforded  as  many 
entrances,  of  which  the  southern  portal 
was  formal  front,  from  which  an  avenue 
of  arbor-vitaes  led  down  to  the  canopied 
landing  at  the  bayou's  bank  at  the  foot 
of  the  decline. 

The  house  had  been  designed  and 
built  by  Harold's  father,  in  an  exube 
rance  of  youthful  enthusiasm,  upon  his 
early  marriage.  He  it  was  who  had 
planted  the  trailing  roses  and  wistaria- 
vines,  whose  gnarled  trunks,  now  woody 
and  strong  as  trees,  topped  the  balco 
nies,  throwingprofusions  of  bloomadown 
their  pillars  and  along  their  balustrades. 
Here  Lamarque,  Solfaterre,  Cloth-of- 
[56] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

gold,  Musk-cluster,  Lady-bank,  Multi- 
flora— all  the  cherished  climbing  roses 
of  an  earlier  period— mingled  in  har 
monious  relations  with  honeysuckle, 
woodbine,  and  clematis. 

The  most  beautiful  of  them  all,  the 
single  yellow-centered  Cherokee  rose  of 
the  soil,— good  enough  in  itself  for  any 
where,  but  ostracized  through  caste  ex 
clusion  from  distinction  of  place  about 
the  home,— lay  in  heavy  tangles  in  the 
tall,  impenetrable  hedges  which  bounded 
the  garden  on  three  sides  meeting  the 
bayou  at  the  base  of  the  knoll. 

Within  its  inclosure  a  resident  col 
ony  of  choice  flowers— exotics  mainly, 
but  domiciled  and  grown  hardy  in  this 
protected  spot— had  waxed  riotous  in 
the  license  of  years  of  neglect,  and 
throwing  off  traditions,  as  many  an 
other  aristocrat  in  like  circumstances 
has  done  before,  appeared  now  in  novel 
forms  developed  in  life's  open  race  with 
children  of  the  soil. 

Here  in  season  were  great  trees  of 
camellia,  white  and  red,  with  each  a 
[57] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

thousand  waxen  blooms,  stalwart 
woody  growths  of  lemon-verbena,  top 
ping  sweet  olives  and  answering  the 
challenge  of  the  stately  oleanders, 
which,  in  turn,  measured  heads  against 
the  magnolias'  shoulders. 

Appropriating  any  available  support, 
great  scarlet  geraniums  ten  feet  high, 
knowing  no  winters,  laid  hands  upon 
the  trellises  and  matched  pennies  with 
the  locust  blooms,  red  petal  against 
white,  affiliating,  weak-spined  as  they 
were,  with  scrub-trees  which  counted 
real  trees  at  least  in  their  Louisiana 
pedigrees. 

"Cape  jasmine  borders"  had  risen 
into  hedges,  fencing  in  certain  beds,  while 
the  violets,  which  originally  guarded 
fantastic  forms  in  outline,  had  gregari 
ously  spread  into  perennial  patches  of 
green  and  purple. 

And  everywhere  there  were  orange- 
trees— not  a  grove  here,  but  always  one 
or  more  in  the  range  of  vision.  Their 
breath  was  over  the  garden,  and  even 
the  bees  in  the  locust- trees, with  all  their 
[58] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

fuss  and  scattering  of  honey  sweets, 
could  not  dispel  their  all-pervading  sug 
gestion  of  romance— the  romance  of 
life  incarnate  ever  expressed  in  their 
peerless  exhibits  of  flower,  fresh  fruit 
and  yellow,  all  growing  together  upon 
a  maternal  tree  rich  in  life  and  tone. 

Too  many  words  about  an  old  garden? 
Perhaps  so,  and  yet— 

The  spirit  of  a  venerable  garden  as  it 
rises  and  shows  itself  to  memory  is 
such  a  benediction  that  one  seeing 
the  vision  may  sometimes  wonder  if,  if 
life,  per  se,  be  eternal,  and  the  resur 
rection  of  certain  so-called  "dead"  a 
fact,  we  may  not  some  day  wander 
again  in  the  risen  gardens  of  our  child 
hood,  recognizing  them  by  verification 
of  certain  familiar  faces  of  flowers  who 
may  know  us  in  turn  and  bloom  again 
—taking  up  life,  which  ever  includes 
love  and  immortality,  at  the  point  of 
suspension,  as  a  mother,  waking  from 
a  nap,  goes  back  to  her  window,  and 
catching  up  her  broken  song  held  in 
the  cobwebs  of  sleep,  sings  it  through, 
[59] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

while  she  finishes  a  little  sleeve,  her 
foot  again  upon  the  cradle  at  her  side. 

Life  is  the  great  serial— one  chapter 
printed  here,  another  there  —  a  seem 
ingly  finished  comedy  crowding  a 
tragedy  unrelated,  yonder. 

The  discerning  artist  who,  reading  as 
he  runs,  brings  these  parts  into  line 
will  have  begun  the  great  book.  Until 
Gabriel  wills,  it  may  not  be  finished. 


[60] 


IV 

IT  was,  no  doubt,  but  natural  that  the 
man  of  the  world,  who  had  deserted 
such  an  Eden  of  his  own  designing  for 
the  ostensible  excuse  of  business  con 
venience,  should  have  resented  in  his 
sons  their  inherited  repugnance  to  the 
retired  life. 

What  more  formidable  combatant 
than  one's  own  stubbornness,  turned  to 
confront  him,  in  his  children? 

The  broken  trip  from  New  Orleans 
to  the  Island  took  nearly  two  days, 
although  the  crow  does  it  easily  in  a 
few  hours. 

The  initial  munificence  of  chartering 
one  of  the  great  Mississippi  steamboats 
for  the  first  stage  of  the  journey  set 
the  pace  for  the  entire  occasion.  Host 
and  hostess  met  their  guests  at  the 
river  landing  with  carriages  and  cane 
[61] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

wagons  gaily  bedecked  with  evergreens, 
mosses,  and  dogwood  branches  in 
flower,  and  a  merry  drive  through 
several  miles  of  forest  brought  them  to 
the  banks  of  the  bayou,  where  a  line  of 
rowboats  awaited  them. 

The  negro  boatmen,  two  to  man  each 
skiff,  wearing  jumpers  of  the  Harvard 
crimson,  stood  uncovered  in  line  at  the 
bayou's  edge,  and  as  the  party  alighted, 
they  served  black  coffee  from  a  fire  in 
the  open. 

The  negro  with  a  cup  of  coffee  his 
own  hue  and  clear  as  wine  is  ever  an 
ubiquitous  combination  in  the  Louisiana 
lowlands.  He  bobs  up  so  unexpectedly 
in  strange  places  balancing  his  tiny  tray 
upon  his  hand,  that  a  guest  soon  begins 
to  look  for  him  almost  anywhere  after 
an  interval  of  about  three  dry  hours, 
and  with  a  fair  chance  of  not  being  dis 
appointed. 

When  finally  the  party  had  embarked, 

the  hostess  riding  in  the  first  boat  with 

the  governor  of  the  State,  while  Harold 

[62] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

brought  up  the  rear  with  the  governor's 
lady,  the  sun  was  low  in  the  west, 
and  narrow  search-lights,  piercing  the 
wood  for  a  brief  moment,  revealed  a 
great  wonder-world  of  dank  growths  so 
fairly  alive  with  creeping,  flying,  dart 
ing  things— chirping,  calling,  singing, 
croaking,  humming,  and  hooting— that 
when  in  a  twinkling  the  light  suddenly 
went  out,  many  of  the  women  shuddered 
with  a  shrinking  sense  of  the  uncanny. 

Before  this  intangible  emotion  had 
time  to  crystallize  into  fear,  however, 
each  pilot  who  manipulated  the  rudder 
astern  had  drawn  from  under  his  seat  a 
great  torch  of  pine  and  set  it  ablaze. 

Under  festoons  of  gray  Spanish  moss, 
often  swung  so  low  that  heads  and 
torches  were  obliged  to  defer  to  them, 
and  between  flowering  banks  which 
seemed  sometimes  almost  to  meet  in 
the  floating  growths  which  the  dividing 
bows  of  the  boats  plowed  under,  the 
little  crafts  sped  lightly  along. 

Occasionally  a  heavy  plunging  thing 
would  strike  the  water  with  a  thud,  so 
[63] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

near  a  boat  that  a  girlish  shriek  would 
pierce  the  wood,  spending  itself  in 
laughter.  A  lazy  alligator,  sleepily  en 
joying  a  lily-pool,  might  have  been 
startled  by  the  light,  or  a  line  of  turtles, 
clinging  like  knots  to  a  log  over  the 
water,  suddenly  let  go. 

Streaks  of  darting  incandescence 
marked  the  eccentric  flights  of  a  million 
fireflies  flecking  the  deep  wood  whose 
darkness  they  failed  to  dispel;  and  once 
or  twice  two  reflected  lights  a  few  inches 
apart,  suggesting  a  deer  in  hiding, 
increased  the  tremulous  interest  of  this 
super-safe  but  most  exciting  journey. 

But  presently,  before  impressions  had 
time  to  repeat  themselves,  and  objects 
dimly  discerned  to  become  familiar,  a 
voice  from  the  leading  boat  started  a 
song. 

It  was  a  great  voice,  vibrant,  strong, 
and  soft  as  velvet,  and  when  presently 
it  was  augmented  by  another,  insidi 
ously  thrown  in,  then  another  in  the 
next  boat,  until  all  the  untutored  Har 
vard  oarsmen  were  bravely  singing  and 
[64] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

the  dipping  oars  fell  into  the  easy  mea 
sure,  all  sense  of  fear  or  place  was  lost 
in  the  great  uplift  of  the  rhythmic 
melody. 

At  special  turns  through  the  wood 
ringing  echoes  gave  back  the  strains. 
A  mocking-bird,  excited  by  the  unusual 
noise,  poured  forth  a  rival  disputatious 
song,  and  an  owl  hooted,  and  something 
barked  like  a  fox;  but  it  was  the  great 
singing  of  the  men  which  filled  the  wood. 

Common  songs  of  the  plantation  fol 
lowed  one  another— songs  of  love,  of 
night  and  bats,  of  devils  and  hobgob 
lins,  selected  according  to  the  will  of 
the  leader— all  excepting  the  opening 
song,  which,  although  of  the  same  reper 
toire,  was  "  by  request,"  and  for  obvious 
reasons. 

It  was  called  "When  de  Sun  Swings 
Low,"  arid  ran  something  like  this: 

Look  out  for  Mister  Swaller  when  de  sun 

swings  low — 

Watch  him  swoop  an'  sway  ! 
He  keeps  a  mighty  dippin',  like  he  don'  know 

whar  to  go, 

[65] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

A-saggin'  every  way. 
He  starts  sort  o'  nimbly, 
But  he  settles  mighty  wimbly 
When  he  scurries  for  de  chimbley 
When  de  sun  swings  low. 

Does  you  see  a  cloud  a-risin'  when  de  sun 
swings  low  ? 

Listen  ef  it  sings. 

Hit 's  a  swarm  o'  gray  muskitties,  'bout  a 
million  strong  or  so, 

A-sharpenin'  up  der  stings. 
Dey  keeps  a  mighty  film', 
An'  dey  tries  to  sing  beguilin', 
But  de  'skitties'  song  is  rilin' 

When  de  sun  swings  low. 

Oh,  de  woods  is  all  conversin'  when  de  sun 
swings  low- 
Bird  an'  beast  an'  tree; 

Dey  all  communes  together  in  de  languages 
dey  know, 

An'  sperits  rise  to  see. 
De  nightmares  prances, 
An'  de  will-o'-wisp  dances, 
When  de  moonlight  advances 
An'  de  sun  swings  low. 

But  most  naive  and  characteristic  of 
them  all  perhaps  was  "OP  Marse 
Adam." 

[66] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

Ole  Mister  Devil  took  a  walk  in  Paradise- 
Lady  Mis'  Eve  she  's  a-walkin',  too— 

Hoped  to  meet  Mars'  Adam,  she  was  steppin' 
mighty  nice— 
Lady  Mis'  Eve  she  's  a-walkin',  too. 

Dis  was  'fo'  de  fig- time,  so  my  lady  picked  a 
rose— 

Lady  Mis'  Eve  she  's  a-walkin',  too— 
An'  she  helt  it  'g'inst  de  sunlight,  as  she  felt 
de  need  o'  clo'es— 
Lady  Mis'  Eve  she  's  a-walkin',  too. 

Den  she  shuk  'er  yaller  ringlets  down  an' 
'lowed  dat  she  was  dressed— 

Lady  Mis'  Eve,  she  's  a-walkin',  too  — 
Mister    Devil  he    come   quoilin'— everbody 
knows  de  rest- 
Lady  Mis'  Eve  she  's  a-walkin',  too. 

Then,  changing  to  a  solemn,  staccato 
measure,  it  went  on: 

Ole  Marse  Adam  !    Ole  Marse  Adam  ! 
Et  de  lady's  apple  up  an'  give  her  all  de  blame. 
Greedy-gut,  greedy-gut,  whar  is  yo'  shame? 
Ole  Marse  Adam,  man,  whar  ie  yo'  shame  ? 

Ole  Marse  Adam  !    Ole  Marse  Adam  ! 
Caught  de  apple  in  'is  neck  an'  made  it 

mighty  so'e, 
5  [67] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

An'  so  we  po'  gran'chillen  has  to  swaller 

roun'  de  co'e. 
Ole  Marse  Adam,  man,  whar  is  yo'  shame  ? 

Ole  Marse  Adam  !    Ole  Marse  Adam  ! 
Praised  de  lady's  attitudes  an'  compliment 

'er  figur' — 
Did  n't  have  de  principle    of  any  decent 

nigger. 
Ole  Marse  Adam,  man,  whar  is  yo'  shame  ? 

It  was  a  long  pull  of  five  miles  up  the 
winding  stream,  but  the  spirit  of  jollity 
had  dispelled  all  sense  of  time,  and 
when  at  last  the  foremost  boat,  dou 
bling  a  jutting  clump  of  willows,  came 
suddenly  into  the  open  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  the  startling  presentment  of 
the  white  house  illuminated  with  fes 
toons  of  Chinese  lanterns,  which  ex 
tended  across  its  entire  width  and  down 
to  the  landing,  was  like  a  dream  of 
fairy-land. 

It  was  indeed  a  smiling  welcome,  and 
exclamations  of  delight  announced  the 
passage  of  the  boats  in  turn  as  they 
rounded  the  willow  bend. 

The  firing  of  a  single  cannon,  with  a 
[68] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

simultaneous  display  of  fireworks,  and 
music  by  the  plantation  band,  celebrated 
the  landing  of  the  last  boat. 

Servants  in  the  simple  old-fashioned 
dress— checked  homespun  with  white 
accessories,  to  which  were  added  for  the 
occasion,  great  rosettes  of  crimson  worn 
upon  the  breast— took  care  of  the  party 
at  the  landing,  bringing  up  the  rear 
with  hand-luggage,  which  they  playfully 
balanced  upon  their  heads  or  shifted 
with  fancy  steps. 

The  old-time  supper— of  the  sort 
which  made  the  mahogany  groan— was 
served  on  the  broad  back  "gallery," 
while  the  plantation  folk  danced  in  the 
clearing  beyond,  a  voice  from  the  base 
ment  floor  calling  out  the  figures. 

This  was  a  great  sight. 

Left  here  to  their  own  devices  as  to 
dress,  the  negroes  made  so  dazzling  a 
display  that,  no  matter  how  madly  they 
danced,  they  could  scarcely  answer  the 
challenge  of  their  own  riotous  color 
schemes. 

Single  dancers  followed;  then  "ladies 
[69] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

and  gentiles  "  in  pairs,  taking  fantastic 
steps  which  would  shame  a  modern 
dancing-master  without  once  awaken 
ing  a  blush  in  a  maiden's  cheek. 

The  dancing  was  refined,  even  dainty, 
to-night,  the  favorite  achievement  of  the 
women  being  the  mincing  step  taken  so 
rapidly  as  to  simulate  suspension  of 
effort,  which  set  the  dancers  spinning 
like  so  many  tops,  although  there  was 
much  languid  posing,  with  exchange  of 
salutations  and  curtsying  galore. 

Yet  not  a  twirl  of  fan  or  dainty  lift 
of  flounce— to  grace  a  figure  or  display 
a  dexterous  foot— but  expressed  a  prim 
itive  idea  of  high  etiquette. 

The  "fragments"  left  over  from  the 
banquet  of  the  upper  porch— many  of 
them  great  unbroken  dishes,  meats, 
game,  and  sweets— provided  a  great 
banquet  for  the  dancers  below,  and  the 
gay  late  feasters  furnished  entertain 
ment,  fresh  and  straight  from  life,  to 
the  company  above,  for  whose  benefit 
many  of  their  most  daring  sallies  were 
evidently  thrown  out— and  who,  after 
[70] 


THE  RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

their  recent  experiences,  were  pleased 
to  be  so  restfully  entertained. 

Toasts,  drunk  in  ginger-pop  and  per 
simmon  beer  innocent  of  guile,  were 
offered  after  grace  at  the  beginning  of 
the  supper,  the  toaster  stepping  out 
into  the  yard  and  bowing  to  the  gallery 
while  he  raised  his  glass  or,  literally, 
his  tin  cup— the  passage  of  the  mas 
ter's  bottle  among  the  men,  later  in  the 
evening,  being  a  distinct  feature. 

The  first  toast  was  offered  to  the  la 
dies— "Mistus  an'  Company-ladies"; 
and  the  next,  following  a  suggestion  of 
the  first  table,  where  the  host  had  been 
much  honored,  was  worded  about  in 
this  wise: 

"  We  drinks  to  de  health,  an'  wealth, 
an9  de  long  life  of  de  leadin'  gentleman  o' 
Brake  Island,  who  done  put  'isself  to  so 
much  pains  an'  money  to  give  dis  party. 
But  to  make  de  toast  accordin'  to  man 
ners,  so  hit  '11  fit  de  gentleman's  visitors 
long  wid  hisself,  I  say  let  's  drink  to 
who  but  *OLE  MAESE  ADAM!'" 

It  is  easy  to  start  a  laugh  when  a 

[71] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

festive  crowd  is  primed  for  fun,  and 
this  toast,  respectfully  submitted  with 
a  low  bow  by  an  ancient  and  privileged 
veteran  of  the  rosined  bow,  was  met 
with  screams  of  delight. 


[72] 


A  RESOURCEFUL  little  island  it  was 
-£~A-  that  could  provide  entertainment 
for  a  party  of  society  folk  for  nearly  a 
fortnight  with  never  a  repetition  to  pall 
or  to  weary. 

The  men,  equipped  for  hunting  or 
fishing,  and  accompanied  by  several 
negro  men-servants  with  a  supplemen 
tary  larder  on  wheels,— which  is  to  say, 
a  wagon-load  of  bread,  butter,  coffee, 
condiments,  and  wines,  with  cooking 
utensils,— left  the  house  early  every 
morning,  before  the  ladies  were  up. 

They  discussed  engineering  schemes 
over  their  fishing-poles  and  game-bags, 
explored  the  fastnesses  of  the  brake, 
eavesdropped  for  the  ultimate  secret 
of  the  woods,  and  plumbed  for  the  ba 
you's  heart,  bringing  from  them  all 
sundry  tangible  witnesses  of  geologic  or 
other  conditions  of  scientific  values. 
[73] 


THE  RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

Most  of  these  "  witnesses,"  however,  it 
must  be  confessed,  were  immediately 
available  for  spit  or  grill,  while  many 
went— so  bountiful  was  the  supply— to 
friends  in  the  city  with  the  cards  of 
their  captors. 

There  are  champagne  bottles  even 
yet  along  the  marshes  of  Brake  Island, 
bottles  whose  bellies  are  as  full  of  sug 
gestion  as  of  mud,  and  whose  tongueless 
mouths  fairly  whistle  as  if  to  recount  the 
canards  which  enlivened  the  swamp 
land  in  those  halcyon  days  of  youth  and 
hope  and  inexperience. 

Until  the  dressing-hour,  in  the  early 
afternoons  which  they  frankly  called 
the  evening,  the  young  women  coddled 
their  bloom  in  linen  cambric  night 
gowns,  mostly,  reading  light  romance 
and  verse,  which  they  quoted  freely 
under  the  challenge  of  the  masculine 
presence. 

Or  they  told  amazing  mammy-tales 
of  voudoo-land  and  the  ghost-country 
for  the  amused  delectation  of  their  gen 
tle  hostess,  who  felt  herself  warmed 
[74] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

and  cheered  in  the  sunshine  of  these 
Southern  temperaments.  It  seemed  all 
a  part  of  the  poetry  and  grace  of  a  novel 
and  romantic  life. 

Here  were  a  dozen  young  women, 
pretty  and  care-free  as  flowers,  any  one 
of  whom  could  throw  herself  across  the 
foot  of  a  bed  and  snatch  a  superfluous 
"beauty-sleep  "  in  the  midst  of  all  man 
ner  of  jollity  and  laughter. 

Most  of  them  spoke  several  languages 
and  as  many  dialects, frequently  passing 
from  one  to  another  in  a  single  sentence 
for  easy  subtlety  or  color,  and  with  dis 
tinct  gain  in  the  direction  of  music. 

Possibly  they  knew  somewhat  of  the 
grammar  of  but  a  single  tongue  beside 
their  own,  their  fluency  being  more  of  a 
traditional  inheritance  than  an  acquisi 
tion.  Such  is  the  mellow  equipment  of 
many  of  our  richest  speakers. 

Not  one  but  could  pull  to  pieces  her 
Olympe  bonnet  and  nimbly  retrim  it 
with  pins,  to  match  her  face  or  fancy— 
or  dance  a  Highland  fling  in  her  'broi- 
dered  nightie,  or  sing— 
[75] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

How  they  all  did  sing— and  play! 
Several  were  accomplished  musicians. 
One  knew  the  Latin  names  of  much  of 
the  flora  of  the  island,  and  found  time 
and  small  coins  sufficient  to  interest  a 
colony  of  eager  pickaninnies  to  gather 
specimens  for  her  "  herbarium." 

Without  ever  having  prepared  a  meal, 
they  could  even  cook,  as  they  had  soon 
amply  proven  by  the  heaping  confec 
tions  which  were  always  in  evidence  at 
the  man-hour— bon-bons,  kisses,  pra 
lines,  what  not?— all  fragrant  with 
mint,  orange-flower,  rose-leaf,  or  violet, 
or  heavy  with  pecans  or  cocoanut. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  the  men  came 
home,  they  frequently  engaged  in  con 
tests  of  skill— in  rowing  or  archery  or 
croquet ;  or,  following  nature's  mani 
fold  suggestions,  they  drifted  in  couples, 
paddling  indolently  among  the  floating 
lily-pads  on  the  bayou,  or  reclining 
among  the  vines  in  the  summer-houses, 
where  they  sipped  iced  orange  syrup  or 
claret  sangaree,  either  one  a  safe  lubri 
cator,  by  mild  inspiration  or  suggestion, 
[76] 


Sipped  iced  orange  syrup  or  claret  sangaree  " 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

of  the  tongue  of  young  love,  which  is 
apt  to  become  tied  at  the  moment  of 
most  need. 

With  the  poems  of  Moore  to  reinforce 
him  with  easy  grace  of  words,  a  broad- 
shouldered  fellow  would  naively  declare 
himself  a  peri,  standing  disconsolate  at 
the  gate  of  his  lady's  heart,  while  she 
quoted  Fanny  Fern  for  her  defense,  or, 
if  she  were  passing  intellectual  and 
of  a  broader  culture,  she  would  give 
him  invitation  in  form  of  rebuff  from 
"The  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  or  a  scathing 
line  from  Shakspere.  Of  course,  all 
the  young  people  knew  their  Shak 
spere— more  or  less. 

They  had  their  fortunes  told  in  a  half- 
dozen  fashions,  by  withered  old  crones 
whose  dim  eyes,  discerning  life's  secrets 
held  lightly  in  supension,  mated  them 
recklessly  on  suspicion. 

Visiting  the  colored  churches,  they 
attended  some  of  the  novel  services  of 
the  plantation,  as,  for  instance,  a  cer 
tain  baptismal  wedding,  which  is  to  say 
a  combined  ceremony,  which  was  in  this 
[79] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

case  performed  quite  regularly  and 
decorously  in  the  interest  of  a  coal- 
black  piccaninny,  artlessly  named  Lily 
Blanche  in  honor  of  two  of  the  young 
ladies  present  whom  the  bride-mother 
had  seen  but  once  out  driving,  but 
whose  gowns  of  flowered  organdy,  lace 
parasols,  and  leghorn  hats  had  stirred 
her  sense  of  beauty  and  virtue  to  action. 

Although  there  was  much  amuse 
ment  over  this  incongruous  function, 
the  absence  of  any  sense  of  embarrass 
ment  in  witnessing  so  delicate  a  cere 
mony—one  which  in  another  setting 
would  easily  have  become  indelicate— 
was  no  doubt  an  unconscious  tribute  to 
the  primitive  simplicity  of  the  con 
tracting  parties, 

And  always  there  were  revival  meet 
ings  to  which  they  might  go  and  hear 
dramatic  recitals  of  marvelous  per 
sonal  "experiences,"  full  of  imagery, 
—travels  in  heaven  or  hell,— with  al 
ways  the  resounding  human  note  which 
ever  prevails  in  vital  reach  for  truth. 
Through  it  all  they  discerned  the  cry 
[80] 


THE  RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

which  finds  the  heart  of  a  listener  and 
brings  him  into  indissoluble  relation 
with  his  brother  man,  no  matter  how 
great  the  darkness  out  of  which  the 
note  may  come.  It  is  universal. 

The  call  is  in  every  heart,  uttered  or 
unexpressed,  and  one  day  it  will  pierce 
the  heavens,  finding  the  blue  for  him 
who  sends  it  forth,  and  for  the  listener 
as  well  if  his  heart  be  attuned. 

Let  who  will  go  and  sit  through 
one  of  these  services,  and  if  he  does  not 
come  away  subdued  and  silent,  more 
tender  at  heart,  and,  if  need  be, 
stronger  of  hand  to  clasp  and  to  lift, 
perhaps— well,  perhaps  his  mind  is  open 
only  to  the  pictorial  and  the  spectacular. 

There  is  no  telling  how  long  the 
house-party  would  have  remained  in 
Paradise  but  for  the  inexorable  calendar 
which  warned  certain  of  its  members 
that  they  would  be  expected  to  answer 
the  royal  summons  of  Comus  at  the 
approaching  carnival;  and  of  course  the 
important  fact  that  certain  bills  from 
[81] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

the  legislature  affecting  the  public  weal 
were  awaiting  the  governor's  signature. 

A  surprising  number  of  marriages 
followed  this  visit,  seeming  to  confirm  a 
report  of  an  absurd  number  of  engage 
ments  made  on  the  island. 

There  is  a  certain  old  black  woman 
living  yet  "  down  by  the  old  basin  "  in 
French  New  Orleans,  a  toothless  old 
crone  who,  by  the  irony  of  circum 
stance,  is  familiarly  known  as  "  OF 
Mammy  Molar,"  who  "remembers" 
many  things  of  this  time  and  occasion, 
which  she  glibly  calls  "de  silverin- 
gineer  party,"  and  who  likes  nothing 
better  than  an  audience. 

If  she  is  believed,  this  much  too 
literal  account  of  a  far-away  time  is 
most  meager  and  unfaithful,  for  she 
does  most  strenuously  insist  that,  for 
instance,  there  was  served  at  the  ser 
vants'  table  on  that  first  night— 

But  let  her  have  her  way  of  it  for  a 
moment— just  a  single  breath  : 

"  Why,  honey,"  she  closes  her  eyes  as 
she  begins,  the  better  to  see  memory 
[82] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

behind  them.  "  Why,  honey,  de  cham 
pagne  wine  was  passed  aroun'  to  de 
hands  all  dat  indurin'  infair  in  water- 
buckets,  an'  dipped  out  in  gou'd  dippers- 
full,  bilin'  over  so  fast  an'  fizzin'  so  it  'd 
tickle  yo'  mouf  to  drink  it.  An'  Marse 
Harol'  Le  Due,  he  stood  on  a  pianner- 
stool  on  de  back  gallery  an'  th'owed 
out  gol'  dollars  by  de  hatful  for  any  of 
us  niggers  to  pick  up ;  an'  de  guv'ner, 
ol'  Marse  Abe  Lincolm,  he  fired  off  sky- 
rockers  an'  read  out  freedom  papers. 

"An'  mids'  all  de  dance  an'  revel  try, 
a  bolt  o'  thunder  fell  like  a  cannon-ball 
outen  a  clair  sky,  an'  we  looked  up  an' 
lo  an'  beholst,  here  was  a  vision  of  a 
big  hand  writin'  on  de  sky,  an'  a  voice 
say,  '  Eat  up  de  balance  ef  anything  is 
found  wantin'!9  an'  wid  dat,dey  plunged 
in  like  a  herd  o'  swine  boun'  for  de  sea, 
an' dey  devoured  de  fragmints  an' popped 
mo'  corks,  an'  dipped  out  mo'  champagne 
wine,  an'  de  mo'  dey  dipped  out  cham 
pagne  wine,  de  mo'  dey  'd  dance.  An' 
de  mo'  dey  'd  dance,  de  mo'  de  wine 
would  flow." 

[83] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

Possibly  the  old  woman's  obvious 
confusion  of  thought  has  some  explan 
ation  in  the  fact  of  the  presence  of  the 
governor  of  the  State,  who,  introduced 
as  a  high  dignitary,  did  make  a  little 
speech  late  that  night,  thanking  the 
colored  people  in  terms  of  compliment 
for  their  dancing;  and  any  impression 
made  here  was  so  quickly  overlaid  by 
the  deeper  experiences  of  the  war 
that  a  blending  can  easily  be  explained. 

There  was  a  shower  of  coins— "pica 
yunes  "  only— thrown  during  the  even 
ing  by  the  master,  a  feature  of  the  dance 
being  to  recover  as  many  of  them  as  pos 
sible  without  breaking  step.  So  the  old 
woman's  memory  is  not  so  far  afield, 
although  as  a  historian  she  might  need 
a  little  editing.  But  such  even  as  this  is 
much  of  the  so-called  "history"  which, 
bound  in  calf,  dishonors  the  world's 
libraries  to-day. 

It  is  so  easy,  seeing  cobwebs  upon  a 
record,— cobwebs   which   may  not   be 
quite  construed  as  alphabet,— to  inter 
pret  them  as  hieroglyphics  of  import, 
[84] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

instead  of  simply  brushing  them  away, 
or  relegating  them,  where  they  belong, 
to  the  dusky  domain  of  the  myth  out  of 
which  we  may  expect  only  weird  sugges 
tion,  as  from  the  mold  of  pressed  rose 
mary,  typifying  remembrance  dead. 

The  house-party,  which  in  this  poor 
retrospect  seems  to  have  devoted  itself 
almost  wholly  to  pleasure,  was  never 
theless  followed  by  immediate  work 
upon  the  project  in  behalf  of  which  it 
was  planned. 

With  this  main  motive  was  also  the 
ulterior  and  most  proper  one  in 
Harold's  mind  of  introducing  his  wife  in 
so  intimate  a  fashion  to  some  of  the  im 
portant  members  of  society,  who  would 
date  life-friendships  from  the  pleasant 
occasion  of  helping  him  to  open  his  own 
door  to  them, 

Some  thousands  of  dollars  went  into 
the  quicksands  of  the  marshes  before 
the  foundations  were  laid  for  the  arch 
of  a  proposed  great  bridge,  beneath 
which  his  boats  should  sail  to  their 
[85] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

landing.  With  the  arrogant  bravado 
of  an  impulsive  boy  challenged  to 
action,  he  began  his  arch  first.  Its 
announcement  of  independence  and 
munificence  would  express  the  position 
he  had  taken.  Sometimes  it  is  well  to 
put  up  a  bold  front,  even  if  one  needs 
work  backward  from  it. 

Harold  moved  fast— but  the  gods  of 
war  moved  faster! 

Scarcely  had  a  single  column  of  solid 
masonry  risen  above  the  palmetto 
swamp  when  Fort  Sumter's  guns 
sounded.  The  smell  of  gunpowder 
penetrated  the  fastnesses  of  the  brake, 
and  yet,  though  his  nostrils  quivered 
like  those  of  an  impetuous  war-horse, 
the  master  held  himself  in  rein  with 
the  thought  of  her  who  would  be  cruelly 
alone  without  him.  And  he  said  to 
himself,  while  he  reared  his  arch: 
"Two  out  of  three  are  enough!  I  have 
taken  their  terror  island  for  my  portion. 
They  may  have  garlands  upon  my 
bridge— when  they  come  sailing  up  my 
canal  as  heroes ! " 

[86] 


"The  brave,  unthinking  fellow,  after  embracing  hia  beloved, 
dashed  to  the  front" 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

But  the  next  whiff  from  the  battle 
ground  stopped  work  on  the  arch.  The 
brothers  had  fallen  side  by  side. 

Madly  seizing  both  the  recovered 
swords,  declaring  he  would  "fight  as 
three,"  the  brave,  unthinking  fellow, 
after  embracing  his  beloved,  put  one  of 
her  hands  in  Hannah's  and  the  other 
in  Israel's,  and,  commending  them  to 
God  by  a  speechless  lift  of  his  dark 
eyes,  mounted  his  horse  and  dashed,  as 
one  afraid  to  look  back,  to  the  front. 


[89] 


VI 

EVERY  ONE  knows  the  story  of 
"poor  Harold  Le  Due"— how,  cap 
tured,  wounded,  he  lay  for  more  than  a 
year  on  the  edge  of  insanity  in  a  Federal 
hospital.  Every  one  knows  of  the  birth 
of  his  child  on  the  lonely  island,  with 
only  black  hands  to  receive  and  tend  it, 
and  how  the  waiting  mother,  guarded 
by  the  faithful  two,  and  loved  by  the 
three  hundred  loyal  slaves  who  prayed 
for  her  life,  finally  passed  out  of  it  on 
the  very  day  of  days  for  which  she  had 
planned  a  great  Christmas  banquet 
for  them  in  honor  of  their  master's 
triumphant  return. 

The  story  is  threadbare.  Everyone 
knows  how  it  happened  that  "the  old 
people,"  Colonel  and  Madame  Le  Due, 
having  taken  flight  upon  report  of  a 
battle,  following  their  last  son,  had 
crossed  the  lines  and  been  unable 
[90] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

from  that  day  to  communicate  with 
the  island;  of  the  season  of  the  snake- 
plague  in  the  heart  of  the  brake,  when 
rattlers  and  copperheads,  spreading- 
adders,  moccasins,  and  conger-eels 
came  up  to  the  island,  squirming,  dart 
ing,  or  lazily  sunning  themselves  in 
its  flowering  grounds  and  lily-ponds, 
some  even  finding  their  way  into  the 
very  beds  of  the  people;  when  the  trees 
were  deserted  of  birds,  and  alligators 
prowled  across  the  terraces,  depredating 
the  poultry-yard  and  even  threatening 
the  negro  children. 

In  the  presence  of  so  manifold  dis 
aster  many  of  the  negroes  returned  to 
voodooism,  and  nude  dances  by  weird 
fires  offered  to  Satan  supplanted  the 
shouting  of  the  name  of  Christ  in  the 
churches.  A  red  streak  in  the  sky  over 
the  brake  was  regarded  as  an  omen  of 
blood— the  thunderbolt  which  struck 
the  smoke-stack  of  the  sugar-house  a 
command  to  stop  work. 

Old  women  who  had  treated  the  sick 
with  savory  teas  of  roots  and  herbs 

[91] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

lapsed  into  conjuring  with  bits  of  hair 
and  bones.  A  rabbit's  foot  was  more 
potent  than  medicine;  a  snake's  tooth 
wet  with  swamp  scum  and  dried  in  the 
glare  of  burning  sulphur  more  to  be 
feared  than  God. 

War,  death  and  birth  and  death  again, 
followed  by  scant  provender  threatening 
famine,  and  then  by  the  invasion  of  ser 
pents,  had  struck  terror  into  hearts 
already  tremulous  and  half  afraid. 

The  word  "freedom"  had  scarcely 
reached  the  island  and  set  the  air  vibrat 
ing  with  hope,  commingled  with  dread, 
when  the  reported  death  of  the  master 
came  as  a  grim  corroboration  of  the 
startling  prospect. 

All  this  is  an  open  story. 

But  how  Israel  and  Hannah,  aided  in 
their  flight  by  a  faithful  few,  slipped  away 
one  dark  night,  carrying  the  young  child 
with  them  to  bear  her  safely  to  her 
father's  people,  knowing  nothing  of 
their  absence,  pending  the  soldier's 
return— for  the  two  never  believed  him 
dead;  how,  when  they  had  nearly 

[92] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

reached  the  rear  lands  of  the  paternal 
place,  they  were  met  by  an  irresistible 
flood  which  turned  them  back;  and  how, 
barely  escaping  with  their  lives,  they 
were  finally  rowed  in  a  skiff  quite 
through  the  hall  of  the  great  house- 
so  high,  indeed,  that  Mammy  rescued 
a  family  portrait  from  the  wall  as  they 
passed;  how  the  baby  slept  through  it 
all,  and  the  dog  followed,  swimming— 

This  is  part  of  the  inside  history 
never  publicly  told. 

The  little  party  was  taken  aboard  a 
boat  which  waited  midstream,  a  tug 
which  became  so  overcrowded  that  it 
took  no  account  of  passengers  whom  it 
carried  safely  to  the  city.  Of  the  poor 
forlorn  lot,  a  few  found  their  way  back 
to  the  plantations  in  search  of  sur 
vivors,  but  in  most  instances,  having 
gone  too  soon,  they  returned  disheart 
ened. 

Madame  Le  Due,  who,  with  her  guests 
and  servants,  had  fled  from  the  home 
stead  at  the  first  warning,  did  not  hear 
for  months  of  the  flight  of  the  old  people 
[93] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

with  her  grandchild,  and  of  their  sup 
posed  fate.  No  one  doubted  that  all 
three  had  perished  in  the  river,  and  the 
news  came  as  tardy  death  tidings  again 
—tidings  arriving  after  the  manner  of 
war  news,  which  often  put  whole  fami 
lies  in  and  out  of  mourning,  in  and  out 
of  season. 


[94] 


VII 


THERE  is  not  space  here  to  dwell 
upon  Harold's  final  return  to  Brake 
Island,  bent  and  broken,  unkempt,— 
disguised  by  the  marks  of  sorrow,  un 
recognized,  as  he  had  hoped  to  be,  of  the 
straggling  few  of  his  own  negroes  whom 
he  encountered  camping  in  the  wood, 
imprisoned  by  fear.     These,  mistaking 
him  for  a  tramp,  avoided  him.     He  had 
heard  the  news  en  route,— the  "news," 
then  several  years  old,— and  had,never- 
theless,  yielded  to  a  sort  of  blind,  stum 
bling  fascination  which  drew  him  back 
to  the  scene  of  his  happiness  and  his 
despair.     Here,  after  all,  was  the  real 
battle-field— and    he   was    again   van 
quished. 

When   he  reached   the   homestead, 

he  found  it  wholly  deserted.    The  "  big 

house,"  sacred  to  superstition  through 

its  succession  of  tragedies,  was  as  Mam- 

[95] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

my  and  Israel  had  left  it.  Even  its 
larder  was  untouched,  and  the  key  of 
the  wine-cellar  lay  imbedded  in  rust  in 
sight  of  the  cob-webbed  door. 

It  was  a  sad  man,  prematurely  gray, 
and  still  gaunt— and  white  with  the  pal 
lor  of  the  hospital  prison —who,  after  this 
sorrowful  pilgrimage  to  Brake  Island, 
appeared,  as  from  the  grave,  upon  the 
streets  of  New  Orleans.  When  he  was 
reinstated  in  his  broken  home,  and 
known  once  more  of  his  family  and 
friends,  he  would  easily  have  become 
the  popular  hero  of  the  hour,  for  the 
gay  world  flung  its  gilded  doors  open  to 
him. 

The  Latin  temperament  of  old  New 
Orleans  kept  always  a  song  in  her 
throat,  even  through  all  the  sad  pas 
sages  of  her  history;  and  there  was 
never  a  year  when  the  French  quarter, 
coquette  that  she  was,  did  not  shake 
her  flounces  and  dance  for  a  season 
with  her  dainty  toes  against  the  lower 
side  of  Canal  Street. 

But  Harold  was  not  a  fellow  of  forget- 
[96] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

ful  mind.  The  arch  of  his  life  was  broken, 
it  is  true,  but  like  that  of  the  bridge  he 
had  begun— a  bridge  which  was  to  invite 
the  gay  world,  yes,  but  which  would  ever 
have  dominated  it,  letting  its  sails  pass 
under —he  could  be  no  other  than  a  wor 
thy  ruin.  Had  his  impetuous  temper 
turned  upon  himself  on  his  return  to 
the  island,  where  devastation  seemed 
to  mock  him  at  every  turn,  there  is  no 
telling  where  it  might  have  driven  him. 
But  a  lonely  mother,  and  the  knowledge 
that  his  father  had  died  of  a  broken 
heart  upon  the  report  of  his  death,  the 
last  of  his  three  sons— the  pathetic, 
dependence  of  his  mother  upon  him 
—the  appeal  of  her  doting  eyes  and 
the  exigencies  of  an  almost  hopeless 
financial  confusion— all  these  combined 
as  a  challenge  to  his  manhood  to  take 
the  helm  in  the  management  of  a 
wrecked  estate. 

It  was  a  saving  situation.  How  often 
is  work  the  great  savior  of  men! 

Once  stirred  in  the  direction  of  effort, 
Harold  soon  developed  great  genius  for 
[97] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

the  manipulation  of  affairs.  Reorgani 
zation  began  with  his  control. 

Square-shouldered  and  straight  as  an 
Indian,  clear  of  profile,  deep-eyed,  and 
thoughtful  of  visage,  the  young  man 
with  the  white  hair  was  soon  a  marked 
figure.  When  even  serious  men  "  went 
foolish  over  him,"  it  is  not  surprising 
that  ambitious  mothers  of  marriageable 
daughters,  in  these  scant  days  of  dearth 
of  men,  should  have  exhibited  occasional 
fluttering  anxieties  while  they  placed 
their  broken  fortunes  in  his  hands. 

Reluctantly  at  first,  but  afterward 
seeing  his  way  through  experience, 
Harold  became  authorized  agent  for 
some  of  the  best  properties  along  the 
river,  saving  what  was  left,  and  some 
times  even  recovering  whole  estates  for 
the  women  in  black  who  had  known 
before  only  how  to  be  good  and  beauti 
ful  in  the  romantic  homes  and  gardens 
whose  pervading  perfume  had  been  that 
of  the  orange-blossom. 

It  was  on  returning  hurriedly  from  a 
trip  to  one  of  these  places  on  the  upper 

[98] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

river— the  property  of  one  Marie  Estelle 
Josephine  Ramsey  de  La  Rose,  widowed 
at  "Yellow  Tavern"— that  he  sought 
the  ferry  skiff  on  the  night  old  man 
Israel  answered  the  call. 


[99] 


VIII 

T  ITTLE  the  old  man  dreamed,  while 
-LJ  he  waited,  midstream,  trying  to 
think  out  his  problem,  that  the  solution 
was  so  near  at  hand. 

We  have  seen  how  the  old  wife  waited 
and  prayed  on  the  shore;  how  with  her 
shaded  mind  she  groped,  as  many  a  wiser 
has  done,  for  a  comforting,  common- 
sense  understanding  of  faith,  that  in 
tangible  "substance  of  things  hoped 
for,"  that  elusive  "evidence  of  things 
not  seen." 

In  a  moment  after  she  heard  the 
creaking  of  the  timbers  as  the  skiff 
chafed  the  landing,  even  while  she  rose, 
as  was  her  habit,  to  see  who  might  be 
coming  over  so  late,  she  dimly  perceived 
two  men  approaching,  Israel  and  an 
other;  and  presently  she  saw  that  Israel 
held  the  man's  hand  and  that  he  walked 
unsteadily. 

[100] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN. .  -  ; 

She  started,  fearing  that  her  man  was 
hurt;  but  before  she  could  find  voice  of 
fear  or  question,  Israel  had  drawn  the 
stranger  to  her  and  was  saying  in  a 
broken  voice: 

"Hannah!  Hannah!  Heah  Mars' 
HarolM" 

Only  a  moment  before,  with  her  dim 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  sky,  she  had  expe 
rienced  a  realization  of  faith,  and  be 
lieved  herself  confidently  awaiting  her 
master's  coming.  And  yet,  seeing  him 
now  in  the  flesh  before  her,  she  ex 
claimed  : 

"What  foolishness  is  dis,  ole  man? 
Don't  practice  no  jokes  on  me  to-night, 
Isrul!" 

Her  voice  was  almost  gruff,  and  she 
drew  back  as  she  spoke.  But  even 
while  she  protested,  Harold  had  laid  his 
hand  upon  her  arm. 

"Mammy,"  he  whispered  huskily, 
"don't  you  know  your  'indurin'  dev 
il  '—  ?  "  (This  had  been  her  last,  worst 
name  for  her  favorite  during  his  mis 
chief  period.) 

[101] 


,  •;;    THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

Harold  never  finished  his  sentence. 
The  first  sound  of  his  voice  had  identi 
fied  him,  but  the  shock  had  confused 
her.  When  at  last  she  sobbed  "  Hush ! 
I  say,  hush ! "  her  arms  were  about  his 
knees  and  she  was  crying  aloud. 

"Glo-o-o  —  oh  —  glo-o-o  —  glo-o-ry ! 
Oh,  my  Gord!"  But  presently,  wiping 
her  eyes,  she  stammered :  "  What  kep' 
you  so,  Baby?  Hoi'  me  up,  chile— hoi' 
me!" 

She  was  falling,  but  Harold  steadied 
her  with  strong  arms,  pressing  her  into 
her  chair,  but  retaining  her  trembling 
hand  while  he  sat  upon  the  low  table 
beside  her. 

He  could  not  speak  at  once,  but,  see 
ing  her  head  drop  upon  her  bosom,  he 
called  quickly  to  Israel.  For  answer,  a 
clarion  note,  in  no  wise  muffled  by  the 
handkerchief  from  which  it  issued, 
came  from  the  woodpile.  Israel  was 
shy  of  his  emotions  and  had  hidden 
himself. 

By  the  time  he  appeared,  sniffling, 
Hannah  had  rallied,  and  was  pressing 
[102] 


ler  arms  were  about  Ifts  &nees*" 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

Harold  from  her  to  better  study  his 
face  at  long  range. 

"What  happened  to  yo'  hair, Baby?" 
she  said  presently.  "  Hit  looks  as  bright 
as  dat  flaxion  curl  o'  yoze  I  got  in  my 
Testamen'.  I  was  lookin'  at  it  only  a 
week  ago  las'  Sunday,  an'  wishin'  I  could 
read  de  book  'long  wid  de  curl." 

"  It  is  much  lighter  than  that,  Mammy. 
It  is  whiter  than  yours.  I  have  lived  the 
sorrows  of  a  long  life  in  a  few  years. 

Israel  still  stood  somewhat  aside  and 
was  taking  no  note  of  their  speech,  which 
he  presently  interrupted  nervously: 

"H-how  you  reckon  Mars'  Harol' 
knowed  me,  Hannah?  He— he  reco'- 
nized  his  horn!  You  ricollec'  when  I 
fotched  dat  horn  f'om  de  islan'  roun' 
my  neck,  clean  'crost  de  flood,  you  made 
game  o'  me,  an'  I  say  I  mought  have 
need  of  it?  But  of  co'se  I  did  n't  ca'cu- 
late  to  have  it  ac-'chilly  call  Mars' 
Harol'  home!  I  sho'  did  n't!  But  dat 's 
what  it  done.  Cep'n'  for  de  horn's  call 
bein'  so  familius,  he  'd  'a'  paid  me  my 
dime  like  a  stranger  an'  passed  on." 

7  [105] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

At  this  Harold  laughed. 

"Sureenough,Uncle  Israel;  you  did  n't 
collect  my  ferriage,  did  you?  I  reckon 
you  '11  have  to  charge  that." 

Israel  chuckled: 

"  Lord,  Hannah, listen !  Don't  dat  soun' 
like  ole  times?  Dey  don't  charge  nothin' 
in  dese  han'-to-mouf  days,  Marse  Harol' 
—not  roun'  heah." 

"But  tell  me,  Uncle  Israel,  how  did 
you  happen  to  bring  that  old  horn 
with  you— sure  enough?"  Harold  inter 
rupted. 

"I  jes  fotched  it  'ca'se  I  could  n't 
leave  it—de  way  Hannah  snatched  yo' 
po'trit  off  de  wall— all  in  dat  deluge. 
Hit's  heah  in  de  cabin  now  to  witness 
de  trip.  But  in  co'se  o'  time  de  horn,  hit 
come  handy  when  I  tuk  de  ferry-skift. 

u  Well,  Hannah,  when  he  stepped  a- 
boa'd,  he  all  but  shuk  de  ole  skift  to 
pieces.  I  ought  to  knowed  dat  Le  Due 
high-step,  but  I  did  n't.  I  jes  felt  his 
tread,  an'  s'luted  him  for  a  gentleman, 
an'  axed  him  for  Gord  sake  to  set  down 
befo'  we  'd  be  capsided  in  de  river.  I 
[106] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

war  n't  cravin'  to  git  drownded  wid  no 
aristoc'acy. 

"  De  moon  she  was  hidin',  dat  time, 
an'  we  could  n't  see  much;  but  he  leant 
over  an'  he  say,  6  Uncle,'  he  say,  '  who 
blowed  dat  horn  'crost  de  river?'  An' 
I  say,  'Me,  sir.  I  blowed  it.'  Den  he 
say,  ( Whose  horn  is  dat?'  An'  I 
'spon',  ( Hit  's  my  horn,  sir.'  Den  my 
conscience  begin  to  gnaw,  an'  I  sort  o' 
stammered, '  Leastways,  it  b'longs  to  a 
frien'  o'  mine  wha'  look  like  he  ain't 
nuver  gwine  to  claim  it.'  I  ain't  say 
who  de  frien'  was,  but  d'rec'ly  he 
pushed  me  to  de  wall.  He  ax  me 
p'intedly  to  my  face,  'What  yo'  frien' 
name,  uncle?'  An  at  dat  I  got  de  big 
head  an'  I  up  an'  snap  out: 

" '  Name  Le  Due,  sir,  Harry  Le  Due.' 

"  Jes  free  an'  easy,  so,  I  say  it.  Lord 
have  mussy!  Ef  I  'd  s'picioned  dat  was 
Mars'  Harol'  settin'  up  dar  listenin'  at 
me  callin'  his  name  so  sociable  an'  free, 
I  'd  'a'  drapped  dem  oa's  overbo'ad.  I 
sho'  would. 

"Well,  when  I  say  ' Harry  Le  Due,' 
[107] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

seem  like  he  got  kind  o'  seasick,  de  way 
he  bent  his  head  down,  an'  I  ax  him 
how  he  come  on— ef  he  got  de  miz'ry 
anywhars.  An'  wid  dat  he  sort  o'  give 
out  a  dry  laugh,  an'  den  what  you 
reckon  he  ax  me?  He  say, ( Uncle,  is 
you  married?'  An'  wid  dat  /  laughed. 
'T  war  n't  no  trouble  for  me  to  laugh 
at  dat.  I  'spon',  *Yas,  sirree!  You 
bet  I  is!  Does  I  look  like  air  rovin' 
bachelor?'  I  was  jes  about  half  mad  by 
dis  time. 

"Well,  so  he  kep'  on  quizzifyin'  me: 
ax  me  whar  I  live,  an'  I  tol'  'im  I  was  a 
ole  risidenter  on  de  levee  heah  for  five 
years  past;  an'  so  we  run  on,  back  an' 
fo'th,  tell  we  teched  de  sho'.  An'  time 
de  skift  bumped  de  landin'  he  laid  his 
han'  on  me  an'  he  say,  'Unc'  Isrul, 
whar  's  Mammy  Hannah? '  An'  den— 
bless  Gord  I  I  knowed  him !  But  I  ain't 
trus'  myself  to  speak.  I  des  nachelly 
clawed  him  an'  drug  him  along  to  you. 
I  seen  de  fulfilment  o'  promise,  an'  my 
heart  was  bustin'  full,  but  I  ain't  got 
no  halleluiah  tongue  like  you.  I  jes 
[108] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

passed  him  along  to  you  an'  made  for 
de  woodpile!" 

It  was  a  great  moment  for  Harold, 
this  meeting  with  the  only  people  liv 
ing  who  could  tell  all  there  was  to  know 
of  those  who  were  gone. 

Hannah's  memory  was  too  photo 
graphic  for  judicious  reminiscence. 
The  camera's  great  imperfection  lies  in 
its  very  accuracy  in  recording  non- 
essentials,  with  resulting  confusion  of 
values.  So  the  old  woman,  when  she 
turned  her  mental  search-light  back 
ward,  "beginning  at  the  beginning," 
which  to  Harold  seemed  the  end  of  all 
—the  day  of  his  departure,— recounted 
every  trivial  incident  of  the  days,  while 
Harold  listened  through  the  night,  of  ten 
suffering  keenly  in  his  eagerness  to 
know  the  crucial  facts,  yet  fearing  to 
interrupt  her  lest  some  precious  thing 
be  lost. 

A  reflected  sunrise  was  reddening  the 

sky  across  the  river  when  she  reached 

the  place  in  the  story  relating  to  the 

baby.     Her  description  needed  not  any 

[109] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

coloring  of  love  to  make  it  charming, 
and  while  he  listened  the  father  mur- 
mured  under  his  breath: 

"  And  then  to  have  lost  her ! " 

"What  dat  you  say,  Marse  Harol'?" 
Hannah  gasped,  her  quick  ears  having 
caught  his  despairing  tone. 

"Oh,  nothing,  Mammy.  Go  on.  It 
did  seem  cruel  to  have  the  little  one 
drowned.  But  I  don't  blame  you.  It  is 
a  miracle  that  you  old  people  saved 
yourselves." 

The  old  woman  turned  to  her  hus 
band  and  threw  up  her  hands. 

"Wh-why,  Isrul!"  she  stammered. 
"  What's  de  matter  wid  you— to  set  heah 
all  night  an'  listen  at  me  talkin'  all 
roun'  de  baby— an'  ain't  named  her  yit!" 

She  rose  and,  drawing  Harold  after 
her,  entered  the  door  at  her  back.  As 
she  pulled  aside  the  curtain  a  ray  of 
sunlight  fell  full  upon  the  sleeping 
child. 

"Heah  yo'  baby,  Baby!"  Her  low 
voice,  steadied  by  its  passages  through 
greater  crises,  was  even  and  gentle. 

[110] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  the  child. 

"Wekup,  baby!  Wekup!"  she  cried. 
"  Yo'  pa  done  come!  Wek  up! " 

Without  stirring  even  so  much  as  a 
thread  of  her  golden  hair  upon  the 
pillow,  the  child  opened  a  pair  of  great 
blue  eyes  and  looked  from  Mammy's 
face  to  the  man's.  Then,— so  much 
surer  is  a  child's  faith  than  another's, 
—doubting  not  at  all,  she  raised  her 
little  arms. 

Her  father,  already  upon  his  knees 
beside  her,  bent  over,  bringing  his  neck 
within  her  embrace,  while  he  inclosed 
her  slender  body  with  his  arms.  Thus 
he  remained,  silent,  for  a  moment,  for 
the  agony  of  his  joy  was  beyond  tears 
or  laughter.  But  presently  he  lifted 
his  child,  and,  sitting,  took  her  upon 
his  lap.  He  could  not  speak  yet,  for 
while  he  smoothed  her  beautiful  hair 
and  studied  her  face,  noting  the  blue 
depths  of  her  darkly  fringed  eyes,  the 
name  that  trembled  for  expression 
within  his  lips  was  "Agnes— Agnes." 

"How  beautiful   she  is!"  he  whis- 

an] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

pered  presently;  and  then,  turning  to 
Hannah,  "  And  how  carefully  you  have 
kept  her!  Everything— so  sweet." 

"  Oh,  yas  ! "  the  old  woman  hastened 
to  answer.  "We  ain't  spared  no  pains 
on  'er,  Marse  Harol'.  She  done  had 
eve'ything  we  could  git  for  her,  by  hook 
or  by  crook.  Of  co'se  she  ain't  had  no 
white  kin  to  christen  her,  an'  dat  was  a 
humiliation  to  us.  She  did  n't  have  no 
to  say  legal  person  to  bring  'er  for'ard, 
so  she  ain't  nuver  been  ca'yed  up  in 
church;  but  she  's  had  every  sort  o' 
christenin'  we  could  reach. 

"I  knowed  yo'  pa's  ma,  ole  Ma'am 
Toinette,  she  'd  turn  in  her  grave  lessen 
her  gran'-chiP  was  christened  Cat'lic, 
so  I  had  her  christened  dat  way.  Dat 
ole  half-blind  priest,  Father  Some'h'n' 
other,  wha'  comes  from  Bayou  de 
Glaise,  he  was  conductin'  mass  meetin' 
or  some'h'n'  other,  down  here  in  Bou- 
ligny,  an'  I  took  de  baby  down,  an'  he 
sprinkled  her  in  Latin  or  some'h'n' 
other,  an'  ornamented  behind  her  ears 
wid  unctious  ile,  an'  crossed  her  little 

[112] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

forehead,  an'  made  her  eat  a  few  grains 
o'  table  salt.  He  done  it  straight,  wid  all 
his  robes  on,  an*  I  g'in  him  a  good  dol 
lar,  too.  An'  dat  badge  you  see  on  her 
neck,  a  sister  o'  charity,  wid  one  o'  dese 
clair-starched  ear-flap  sunbonnets  on, 
she  put  dat  on  her.  She  say  she  give 
it  to  her  to  wear  so  's  she  could  n't  git 
drownded— like  as  efl  9d  let  her  drownd. 
Yit  an'  still  I  lef  it  so,  an'  I  even  buys  a 
fresh  blue  ribbin  for  it,once-t  an' a  while. 
I  hear  'em  say  dat  blue  hit's  de  Hail  Mary 
color— an'  it  becomes  her  eyes,  too.  Dey 
say  what  don't  pizen  fattens,  an'  I 
know  dem  charms  could  n't  do  her  no 
hurt,  an',  of  'co'se,  we  don't  know  all. 
Maybe  dey  mought  ketch  de  eye  of  a 
hoverin'  angel  in  de  air  an'  bring  de 
baby  into  Heavenly  notice.  Of  co'se,  I 
would  n't  put  no  sech  as  dat  on  her.  I 
ain't  been  raised  to  it,  an'  I  ain't  no  beg- 
gin'  hycoprite.  But  I  would  n't  take  it 
off,  nuther. 

"  Den,  I  knowed  ole  Mis',  yo'  ma,  she 
was  'Pistopal,  an'  Miss  Aggie  she  was 
Numitarium;  so  every  time  a  preacher 'd 

[113] 


THE  RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

be  passiir  I  'd  git  him  to  perform  it  his 
way.  Me  bein'  Baptis'  I  did  n't  have  no 
nigger  baptism  to  saddle  on  her. 

"  So  she 's  bounteously  baptized— yas, 
sir.  I  reasoned  it  out  dat  ef  dey  's  only  one 
true  baptism,  an'  I  war  n't  to  say  shore 
which  one  it  was,  I  better  git  'em  all,  an' 
only  de  onlies*  true  one  would  count;  an? 
den  ag'in,  ef  all  honest  baptisms  is  good, 
den  de  mo'  de  merrier,  as  de  Book  say.  Of 
co'se  I  knowed  pyore  rain-water  sprin 
kled  on  wid  a  blessin'  could  n't  hurt  no 
chile. 

"You  see,  when  one  side  de  house  is 
French  distraction  an'  de  yether  is 
English  to-scent,  an'  dey's  a  dozen  side- 
nations  wid  blood  to  tell  in  all  de 
branches,— well,  hit  minds  me  o'  dis 
6a'm  of  a  thousan9  flowers  dat  ole  Mis' 
used  to  think  so  much  of.  Hits  hard 
to  'stinguish  out  any  one  flagrams. 

"  But  talkin'  about  de  baby,  she  ain't 
been  deprived,  no  mo'  'n  de  Lord  de 
prived  her,  for  a  season,  of  her  rights  to 
highlivin'an'— an'aristoc'acy— an'— an' 
petigree,  an' posterity,  an' all  sech  as  dat. 

[114] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

"An'- 

"What  dat  you  say,  Mars'  Harol' ? 
What  name  is  we— 

"We  ain't  dast  to  give  'er  no  name, 
Baby,  no  mo'  'n  jes  Blossom.  I  got  ?er 
wrote  down  in  five  citi/icates  'Miss 
Blossom,'  jes  so.  No,  sir.  I  knows  my 
colored  place,  an'  I  '11  go  so  far,  an'  dat 's 
all  de  further.  She  was  jes  as  much  a 
blossom  befo'  she  was  christened  as  she 
was  arterwards,  so  my  namin'  'er  don't 
count.  I  was  'mos'  tempted  to  call  out 
'Agnes '  to  de  preachers,  when  dey  'd  look 
to  me  for  a  name,  seein'  it  was  her 
right  —  like  as  ef  she  was  borned  to 
it ;  but  —  I  ain't  nuver  imposed  on 
her.  No,  sir,  we  ain't  imposed  on  her 
noways. 

"  De  on'iest  wrong  I  ever  done  her— 
an'  Gord  knows  I  done  it  to  save  her  to 
my  arms,  an'  for  you,  marster— de 
on'iest  wrong  was  to  let  her  go  widout 
her  little  sunbonnet  an'  git  her  skin 
browned  up  so  maybe  nobody  would  n't 
s'picion  she  was  clair  white  an'  like  as 
not  try  to  wrest  her  from  me.  An'  one 
[115] 


THE    RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

time,  when  a  uppish  yo'ng  man  ast  me 
her  name,  I  said  it  straight,  but  I  see 
him  look  mighty  cu'yus,  an'  I  spoke  up 
an'  say, '  What  other  name  you  'speet* 
her  to  have?  My  name  is  Hannah  Le 
Due,  an'  I 's  dat  child's  daddy's  mammy.' 
Excuse  me,  Mars'  Harold,  but  you 
know  I  is  yo'  black  mammy— an'  /  was 
in  so'e  straits. 

"  So  de  yo'ng  man,  well,  he  did  n't 
seem  to  have  no  raisin'.  He  jes  sort  o' 
whistled,  an'  say  I  sho  is  got  one  mighty 
blon'  gran'chil'— an'  I  'spon', ' Yas,  sir; 
so  it  seems.' 

"An'  dat 's  de  on'ies' wrong  I  ever  done 
her.  She  sets  up  at  her  little  dinner- 
table  sot  wid  a  table-cloth  an'  a  white 
napkin,— an'  I  done  buyed  her  a  ginuine 
silver-plated  napkin-ring  to  hold  it  in, 
too,— an'  she  says  her  own  little  blessin' 
—dat  short  'Grace  o'  Gord — material 
binef  ets,'  one  o'  Miss  Aggie's ;  I  learned 
it  to  her.  No,  she  ain't  been  handled 
keerless,  ef  she  is  been  livin'  on  de  out 
side  o'  de  levee,  like  free  niggers.  But 
we  ain't  to  say  lived  here,  'not  perzackly, 
[116] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

marster.  We  jes  been  waitin'  along,  so, 
dese  five  years— waitin'  for  to-night. 

"I  ain't  nuver  sorted  her  clo'es  out 
into  no  bureau;  I  keeps  'em  all  in  her 
little  trunk,  perpared  to  move  along." 

For  a  moment  the  realization  of  the 
culmination  of  her  faith  seemed  to  suf 
fuse  her  soul,  and  as  she  proceeded,  her 
voice  fell  in  soft,  rhythmic  undulations. 

"Ya-as,  Mars'  Harol',  Mammy's  baby 
boy,  yo'  ol'  nuss  she  been  waitin',  an' 
o-ole  man  Isrul  he  been  waitin',  an'  de 
Blossom  she  been  waitin'.  I  'spec'  she 
had  de  firmes'  faith,  arter  all,  de  baby  did. 
Day  by  day  we  all  waited— an'  night  by 
night.  An'  sometimes  when  courage 
would  burn  low  an'  de  lamp  o'  faith 
grow  dim,  seem  like  we  'd  'a9  broke  loose 
an'  started  a-wanderiri'  in  a  sort  o' 
blind  search,  'cep'n'for  de  river. 

"  Look  like  ef  we  'd  ever  went  beyan' 
de  river's  call,  we  'd  been  same  as  de 
chillen  o'  Isrul  lost  in  de  tanglement 
o'  de  wilderness.  All  we  river  chillen, 
we  boun'  to  stay  by  her,  same  as  toddlin' 
babies  hangs  by  a  mammy's  skirts.  She 
[117] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

'11  whup  us  one  day,  an'  chastise  us 
severe;  den  she  '11  bring  us  into  de  light, 
same  as  she  done  to-night— same  as  reel 
mammies  does. 

"An',  Mars'  HaroP-" 

She  lowered  her  voice. 

"Mars'  HaroP,  don't  tell  me  she 
don't  know!  I  tell  yer,  me  an'  dis  River 
we  done  spent  many  a  dark  night  to 
gether  under  de  stars,  an'  we  done 
talked  an'  answered  one  another  so 
many  lonely  hours— an'  she  done 
showed  us  so  many  mericles  on  land 
an9  water— 

"I  tell  yer,  I  done  found  out  some'hV 
about  de  River,  Mars'  HaroP.  She  's 
—why,  she  's— 

"Oh,  ef  I  could  only  write  it  all  down 
to  go  in  a  book!  We  been  th'ough  some 
merac'lous  times  together,  sho'  ?s  you 
born— sho'  's  you  born. 

"  She  's  a  mericle  mystery,  sho' ! 

"  You  lean  over  an'  dip  yo'  han'  in  her 
an'  you  take  it  up  an'  you  say  it's  wet. 
You  dig  yo'  oars  into  her,  an'  she  '11 
spin  yo'  boat  over  her  breast.  You  dive 

[118] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

down  into  her,  an'  you  come  up— or 
don't  come  up.  Some  eats  her.  Some 
drinks  her.  Some  gethers  wealth  outen 
her.  Some  draps  it  into  her.  Some 
drownds  in  her. 

"An'  she  gives  an'  takes,  an'  seem 
like  all  her  chillen  gits  satisfaction 
outen  her,  one  way  an'  another;  but  yit 
an'  still,  she  ain't  nuver  flustered.  On 
an'  on  she  goes— rain  or  shine— high 
water— low  water— all  de  same— on  an' 
on. 

"When  she  craves  diamonds  for  her 
neck,  she  reaches  up  wid  long  onvisible 
hands  an'  gethers  de  stars  out'n  de 
firmamint. 

"  De  moon  is  her  common  breastpin, 
an'  de  sun— 

"Even  he  don't  faze  her.  She  takes 
what  she  wants,  an'  sends  back  his  fire 
every  day. 

"  De  mists  is  a  veil  for  her  face,  an'  de 
showers  fringes  it. 

"  Sunrise  or  dusklight,  black  night  or 
midday,  every  change  she  answers  whilst 
she  *s  passing 

[119] 


THE  RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

"  But  who  ever  inticed  her  to  stop  or 
to  look  or  listen?  Nobody,  Baby.  An' 
why? 

"  Oh,  Lord !  ef  eve'ybody  only  knowed ! 

"You  see,  all  sech  as  dat,  I  used  to 
study  over  it  an'  ponder  bef o'  we  started 
to  talk  back  an'fo'th— de  River  an' me. 

"One  dark  night  she  heared  me  cry- 
in'  low  on  de  bank,  whilst  de  ole  man 
stepped  into  de  boat  to  row  'crost  de 
water,  an'  she  felt  Wood -duck  settle 
heavy  on  her  breast,  an'  she  seen  dat 
we  carried  de  same  troublous  thought 
— searchin'  an'  waitin'for  the  fulfilment 
o'  promise. 

"An'  so  we  started  to  call— an'  to  an 
swer,  heart  to  heart." 

The  story  is  nearly  told.  No  doubt 
many  would  be  willing  to  have  it  stop 
here.  But  a  tale  of  the  river  is  a  tale 
of  greed,  and  must  have  satisfaction. 

While  father  and  child  sat  together, 

Israel  came,  bringing  fresh  chips.     He 

had  been  among  the  woodpiles  again. 

This  time  there  followed  him  the  dog. 

[120] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

"Why,  Blucher!"  Harold  exclaimed. 
"  Blucher,  old  fellow! "  And  at  his  voice 
the  dog,  whining  and  sniffing,  climbed 
against  his  shoulder,  even  licking  his 
face  and  his  hand.  Then,  running  off, 
he  barked  at  Israel  and  Hannah,  telling 
them  in  fine  dog  Latin  who  the  man 
was  who  had  come.  Then  he  crouched 
at  his  feet,  and,  after  watching  his  face 
a  moment,  laid  his  head  upon  his  mas 
ter's  right  foot,  a  trick  Harold  had 
taught  him  as  a  pup. 


[121] 


IX 

OP  course  Harold  wished  to  take  the 
entire  famliy  home  with  him  at 
once,  and  would  hear  to  nothing  else  un 
til  Hannah,  serving  black  coffee  to  him 
from  her  furnace,  in  the  dawn,  begged 
that  she  and  Israel  might  have  "  a  few 
days  to  rest  an'  to  study  "  before  moving. 
It  was  on  the  second  evening  following 
this,  at  nightfall,  while  her  man  was 
away  in  his  boat,  that  the  old  woman 
rose  from  her  chair  and,  first  studying 
the  heavens  and  then  casting  about 
her  to  see  that  no  one  was  near,  she 
went  down  to  the  water,  slowly  picking 
her  way  to  a  shallow  pool  between  the 
rafts  and  the  shore.  She  sat  here  at 
first,  upon  the  edge  of  the  bank,  frankly 
dropping  her  feet  into  the  water  while 
she  seemed  to  begin  to  talk— or  possibly 
she  sang,  for  the  low  sound  which  only 
occasionally  rose  above  the  small  noises 
[122] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

of  the  rafts  was  faintly  suggestive  of  a 
priest's  intoning. 

For  a  moment  only,  she  sat  thus. 
Then  she  began  to  lower  herself  into 
the  water,  until,  leaning,  she  could  lay 
her  face  against  the  sod,  so  that  a  wave 
passed  over  it,  and  when,  letting  her 
weight  go,  she  subsided,  with  arms  ex 
tended,  into  the  shallow  pool,  a  close 
listener  might  have  heard  an  undulat 
ing  song,  so  like  the  river's  in  tone  as 
to  be  separable  from  it  only  through 
the  faint  suggestion  of  words,  inter 
rupted  or  drowned  at  intervals  by  the 
creaking  and  knocking  of  the  rafts  and 
the  gurgling  of  the  sucking  eddies  about 
them. 

The  woman's  voice— song,  speech,  or 
what  noil— seemed  intermittent,  as  if 
in  converse  with  another  presence. 

Suddenly,  while  she  stood  thus,  she 
dropped  bodily,  going  fully  under  the 
water  for  a  brief  moment,  as  if  renew 
ing  her  baptism,  and  when  she  presently 
lifted  herself,  she  was  crying  aloud,  sob 
bing  as  a  child  sobs  in  the  awful  mo- 
[123] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

mentary  despair  of  grief  at  the  untwin 
ing  of  arms— shaken,  unrestrained. 

While  she  stood  thus  for  a  few  min 
utes  only,— a  pathetic  waste  of  sorrow, 
wet,  dark  and  forlorn,  alone  on  the 
night-shore,— a  sudden  wind,  a  common 
evening  current,  threw  a  foaming  wave 
over  the  logs  beside  her  so  that  its 
spray  covered  her  over;  while  the 
straining  ropes,  breaking  and  bumping 
timbers,  with  the  slow  dripping  of  the 
spent  wave  through  the  raft,  seemed  to 
answer  and  possibly  to  assuage  her  agi 
tation;  for,  as  the  wind  passed  and  the 
waters  subsided,  she  suddenly  grew 
still,  and,  climbing  the  bank  as  she  had 
come,  walked  evenly  as  one  at  peace, 
into  her  cabin. 

No  one  will  ever  know  what,  precisely, 
was  the  nature  of  this  last  communion. 
Was  it  simply  an  intimate  leave-taking 
of  a  faithful  companionship  grown  dear 
through  years  of  stress?  Or  had  it 
deeper  meaning  in  a  realization— or 
hallucination— as  to  the  personality  of 
the  river— the  "secret"  to  which  she 

[124] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

only  once  mysteriously  referred  in  a 
gush  of  confidence  on  her  master's  re 
turn? 

Perhaps  she  did  not  know  herself,  or 
only  vaguely  felt  what  she  could  not 
tell.  Certainly  not  even  to  her  old  hus 
band,  one  with  her  in  life  and  spirit, 
did  she  try  to  convey  this  mystic  reve 
lation.  We  know  by  intuition  the  planes 
upon  which  our  minds  may  meet  with 
those  of  our  nearest  and  dearest.  To 
the  good  man  and  soldier,  Israel,— the 
prophet,  even,  who  held  up  the  waver 
ing  hands  of  the  imaginative  woman 
when  her  courage  waned,  pointing  to 
the  hour  of  fulfilment,— the  great  river, 
full  of  potencies  for  good  or  ill,  could  be 
only  a  river.  As  a  mirror  it  had  shown 
him  divinity,  and  in  its  character  it 
might  typify  to  his  image-loving  mind 
another  thing  which  service  would  make 
it  precious.  But  what  he  would  have 
called  his  sanity— had  he  known  the 
word— would  have  obliged  him  to  stop 
there. 

The  stars  do  not  tell,  and  the  poor 
[125] 


THE  RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

moon— at  best  only  hinting  what  the 
sun  says— is  fully  half-time  off  her 
mind.  And  the  SOUL  OF  THE  RiVER— 
if,  indeed,  it  has  once  broken  silence— 
may  not  speak  again. 

And,  so,  her  secret  is  safe-  safe  even 
if  the  broken  winds  did  catch  a  breath, 
here  and  there,  sending  it  flurriedly 
through  and  over  the  logs  until  they 
trembled  with  a  sort  of  mad  harp- 
consciousness,  and  were  set  a-quivering 
for  just  one  full  strain— one  coherent 
expression  of  soul-essence— when  the 
wave  broke.  Perhaps  the  arms  of  the 
twin  spirits  were  untwined— and  they 
went  their  separate  ways  smiling— the 
woman  and  the  river. 

When,  after  a  short  time,  the  old  wife 
came  out,  dressed  in  fresh  clothing,  her 
white,  starched  tignon  shining  in  the 
moonlight,  to  sit  and  talk  with  her  hus 
band,  her  composure  was  as  perfect  as 
that  of  the  face  of  the  water  which  in 
its  serenity  suggested  the  voice  of  the 
Master,  when  Peter  would  have  sunk 
but  for  his  word. 

[126] 


THE  RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

This  was  to  be  their  last  night  here. 
Harold  was  to  bring  a  carriage  on  the 
next  day  to  take  them  to  his  mother 
and  Blossom,  and,  despite  the  joy  in 
their  old  hearts,  it  cost  them  a  pang 
to  contemplate  going  away.  Every 
wood-pile  seemed  to  hold  a  memory, 
each  feature  of  the  bank  a  tender  asso 
ciation.  Blucher  lay  sleeping  beside 
them. 

Israel  spoke  first. 

"Hannah! "he  said. 

"What,  Isrul?" 

"I  ready  to  go  home  to-night,  Han 
nah.  Marse  Harol'  done  come.  We 
done  finished  our  'sponsibility— an'  de 
big  river  's  a-flowin'  on  to  de  sea— an' 
settin'  heah,  I  'magines  I  kin  see  Mis' 
Aggie  lookin'  down  on  us,  an'  seem  like 
she  mought  want  to  consult  wid  us 
arter  our  meetin'  wid  Marse  Harol'  an' 
we  passin'  Blossom  along.  What  you 
say,  Hannah?" 

"  I  been  tired,  ole  man,  an'  ef  we  could 
'a'  went  las' night,  like  you  say,  seem  like 
I  M  'a'  been  ready— an',  of  co'se,  I  'm 
[127] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

ready  now,  ef  Gord  wills.  Peace  is  on 
my  sperit.  Yit  an'  still,  when  we  rests 
off  a  little  an'  studies  freedom  free 
handed,  we  won't  want  to  hasten  along 
maybe.  Ef  we  was  to  set  heah  an'  wait 
tell  Gord  calls  us,— He  ain't  ap'  to  call 
us  bof  e  together,  an'  dey  'd  be  lonesome 
days  for  the  last  one.  But  ef  we  goes 
'long  wid  Marse  Harol',  he  an'  Blossom 
'11  be  a  heap  o'  comfort  to  de  one  what 's 
left." 

"Hannah!" 

"Yas,  Isrul." 

"We  's  a-settin'  to-night  close  to  de 
brink— ain't  dat  so?" 

"Yas,  Isrul." 

"An'  de  deep  waters  is  in  sight,  eh, 
Hannah?" 

"Yas,  Isrul." 

"An'  we  heah  it  singin',  ef  we  listen 
close,  eh,  Hannah?" 

"Yas,  Isrul." 

"Well,  don't  let 's  forgit  it,  dat 's  all. 

Don't  let  's  forgit,  when  we  turns  our 

backs  on  dis  swellin'  tide,  dat  de  river  o' 

Jordan  is  jes  befo'  us,  all  de  same— 

[128] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

an'  it  can't  be  long  befo'  our  crossin'- 
time." 

"Amen!"  said  the  woman. 

The  moon  shone  full  upon  the  great 
river,  making  a  shimmering  path  of 
light  from  shore  to  shore,  when  the  old 
couple  slowly  rose  and  went  to  rest. 

Toward  morning  there  was  a  quick 
gurgling  sound  in  front  of  the  cabin. 
Blucher  caught  it,  and,  springing  out, 
barked  at  the  stars.  The  sleepers  with 
in  the  levee  hut  slept  on,  being  over 
weary. 

The  watchman  in  the  Carrollton  gar 
den  heard  the  sound,— heard  it  swell 
almost  to  a  roar,— and  he  ran  to  the  new 
levee,  reaching  its  summit  just  in  time 
to  see  the  roof  of  the  cabin  as  it  sank, 
with  the  entire  point  of  land  upon  which 
it  rested,  into  the  greedy  flood. 

When  Harold  Le  Due  arrived  that 
morning  to  take  the  old  people  home, 
the  river  came  to  meet  him  at  the  brim 
of  the  near  bank,  and  its  face  was  as  the 
face  of  smiling  innocence. 

[129] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

While  he  stood  awe-stricken  before 
the  awful  fact  so  tragically  expressed 
in  the  river's  bland  denial,  a  wet  dog 
came,  and,  whining,  crouched  at  his  feet. 
He  barked  softly,  laid  his  head  a  moment 
upon  his  master's  boot,  moaned  a  sort 
of  confidential  note,  and,  looking  into 
the  air,  barked  again,  softly. 

Did  he  see  more  than  he  could  tell? 
Was  he  trying  to  comfort  his  master? 
He  had  heard  all  the  sweet  converse  of 
the  old  people  on  that  last  night,  and 
perhaps  he  was  saying  in  his  poor  best 
speech  that  all  was  well. 

Mammy  Hannah  and  Uncle  Israel, 
having  discharged  their  responsibility, 
had  crossed  the  River  together. 


[130] 


PART  THIRD 


PART  THIRD 

"Oh,  it's  windy, 

Sweet  Lucindy, 
On  de  river-bank  to-night, 

An'  de  moontime 

Beats  de  noontime, 
When  de  trimblin'  water  's  white." 

SO  runs  the  plantation  love-song,  and 
so  sang  a  great  brown  fellow  as,  with 
oars  over  his  shoulder,  he  strolled  down 
"  Lovers'  Lane,"  between  the  bois  d'arcs, 
toward  the  Mississippi  levee. 

He  repeated  it  correctly  until  he 
neared  the  gourd-vine  which  marked 
the  home  of  his  lady,  when  he  dropped 
his  voice  a  bit  and,  eschewing  rhyme 
for  the  greater  value,  sang: 

"Oh,  it's  windy, 

Sweet  Maria, 
On  de  river-bank  to-night — " 

And  slackening  his  pace  until  he  heard 
[133] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

footsteps  behind  him,  he  stopped  and 
waited  while  a  lithe  yellow  girl  over 
took  him  languidly. 

" Heah,  you  take  yo'  sheer  o'  de  load! " 
he  laughed  as  he  handed  her  one  of  the 
oars.  "Better  begin  right.  You  tote 
half  an'  me  half."  And  as  she  took  the 
oar  he  added,  "How  is  you  to-night, 
anyhow,  sugar-gal?" 

While  he  put  his  right  arm  around 
her  waist,  having  shifted  the  remain 
ing  oar  to  his  left  side,  the  girl  instinc 
tively  bestowed  the  one  she  carried  over 
her  right  shoulder,  so  that  her  left  arm 
was  free  for  reciprocity,  to  which  it 
naively  devoted  itself. 

"I  tell  yer,  hit  's  fine  an'  windy  to 
night,  sho'  enough,"  he  said.  "De 
breeze  on  de  levee  is  fresh  an'  cool,  an' 
de  skift  she  's  got  a  new  yaller-buff 
frock,  an'  she—" 

"Which  skift  ?  De  Malviny  ?  Is  you 
give  her  a  fresh  coat  o'  paint?  An' 
dat  's  my  favoryte  color— yaller-buff!" 
This  with  a  chuckle, 

"No;  dey  ain't  no  Malviny  skift  no 
[134] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

mo'— not  on  dis  plantation.  I  done 
changed  her  name." 

"You  is,  is  yer?  What  is  you  named 
her  dis  time?" 

She  was  preparing  to  express  surprise 
in  the  surely  expected.  Of  course  the 
boat  was  renamed  the  Maria.  What 
else,  in  the  circumstances? 

"I  painted  her  after  a  lady-frien's 
complexion,  a  bright,  clair  yaller;  but 
as  to  de  name— guess!"  said  the  man, 
with  a  lunge  toward  the  girl,  as  the  oar 
he  carried  struck  a  tree— a  lunge  which 
brought  him  into  position  to  touch  her 
ear  with  his  lips  while  he  repeated: 
"  What  you  reckon  I  named  her,  sweet 
ening" 

"How  should  I  know?  I  ain't  in  yo' 
heart!" 

"You  ain't,  ain't  yer?  Ef  you  ain't, 
I  'd  like  mighty  well  to  know  who 
is.  You  's  a  reg'lar  risidenter,  you 
is— an'  you  knows  it,  too!  Guess 
along,  gal.  What  you  think  de  boat 's 
named?" 

"Well,  ef  you  persises  for  me  to 
[135] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

guess,  I  '11  say  Silv9  Ann.  Dat  's  a  purty 
title  for  a  skif  t." 

"Silv9  Ann!"  contemptuously.  "I 
'clare,  M'ria,  I  b'lieve  you  's  jealous- 
hearted.  No,  indeedy!  I  know  I  run 
'roun'  wid  Silv'  Ann  awhile  back,  jes  to 
pass  de  time,  but  she  can't  name  none 
o'  my  boats!  No;  ef  you  won't  guess, 
I  '11  tell  yer— dat  is,  I  '11  give  you  a  hint. 
She  namea  A>r  my  best  gal !  Now  guess  !" 

"I  never  was  no  hand  at  guessin'." 
The  girl  laughed  while  she  tossed  her 
head.  "Heah,  take  dis  oah,  man,  an' 
lemme  walk  free.  I  ain't  ingaged  to 
tote  no  half-load  yit—as  I  knows  on. 
Lordy,  but  dat  heavy  paddle  done  put 
my  whole  arm  to  sleep.  Ouch!  boy. 
Hands  off  tell  de  pins  an'  needles  draps 
out.  I  sho'  is  glad  to  go  rowin'  on  de 
water  to-night." 

So  sure  was  she  now  of  her  lover,  and 
of  the  honor  which  he  tossed  as  a  ball 
in  his  hands,  never  letting  her  quite  see 
it,  that  she  whimsically  put  away  the 
subject. 

She  had  been  to  school  several  sum- 
[136] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

mers  and  could  decipher  a  good  many 
words,  but  most  surely,  from  proud 
practice,  she  could  spell  her  own  name. 
As  they  presently  climbed  the  levee  to 
gether,  she  remarked,  seeing  the  water: 
"  Whar  is  de  boat,  anyhow  —  de  What- 
you-may-call-it?  She  ain't  in  sight— 
not  heah ! " 

"No;  she's  a  little  piece  up  de  cur 
rent—in  de  wilier-clump.  I  did  n't 
want  nobody  foolin'  wid  'er— an'  may 
be  readin'  off  my  affairs.  She  got  her 
new  intitlemint  painted  on  her  stern 
—every  letter  a  different  color^  to 
match  de  way  her  namesake  treats  me 
—in  a  new  light  every  day." 

The  girl  giggled  foolishly.  She  seemed 
to  see  the  contour  of  her  own  name, 
a  bouquet  of  color  reaching  across  the 
boat,  and  it  pleased  her.  It  would  be 
a  witness  for  her— to  all  who  could 
read. 

"I  sho'  does  like  boats  an'  water," 
she  generalized,  as  they  walked  on. 

"Me,  too,"  agreed  her  lover;  "but  I 
likes  anything— wid  my  chosen  com- 
9  [137] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

pany.  What  is  dat  whizzin'  past  my 
face?  Look  like  a  honey-bee." 

"'T  is  a  honey-bee.  Dey  comes  up 
heah  on  account  o'  de  chiny-flowers. 
But  look  out!  Dat  's  another!  You 
started  'em  time  you  drug  yo'  oah  in 
de  mids'  o'  dem  chiny-blossoms.  When 
ever  de  chiny-trees  gits  too  sickenin' 
sweet,  look  out  for  de  bees!" 

"  Yas,"  chuckled  de  man;  "an'  dey  's 
a  lesson  in  dat,  ef  we  'd  study  over  it. 
Whenever  life  gits  too  sweet,  look  out 
for  trouble !  But  we  won't  worry  'bout 
dat  to-night.  Is  you  'feared  o'  stingin' 
bees?  " 

"  No,  not  whilst  dey  getherin'  honey 
—dey  too  busy.  Hit  's  de  idlers  dat  I 
shun.  An'  I  ain't  afeared  o'  trouble, 
nuther.  Yit  an'  still,  ef  happiness  is  a 
sign,  I  better  look  sharp." 

"  Is  you  so  happy,  my  Sugar?  " 

The  girl  laughed. 

"I  don't  know  ef  I  is  or  not— I  mus' 

see  de  name  on  dat  skift  befo'  I  can 

say.    Take  yo'  han'  off  my  wais',  boy! 

Ef  you  don't  I  '11  be  'feared  o'  stingin' 

[138] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

bees,  sho'  enough!    Don't  make  life  too 
sweet!" 

They  were  both  laughing  when  the 
girl  dashed  ahead  into  the  willow- 
clump,  Love  close  at  her  heels,  and  in  a 
moment  the  Maria,  in  her  gleaming 
dress  of  yellow,  darted  out  into  the 
sunset. 

A  boat  or  two  had  preceded  them, 
and  another  followed  presently,  but  it 
takes  money  to  own  a  skiff,  or  even  to 
build  one  of  the  drift-wood,  which  is 
free  to  the  captor.  And  so  most  of  the 
couples  who  sought  the  river  strolled  for 
a  short  space,  finding  secluded  seats  on 
the  rough-hewn  benches  between  the 
acacia-trees  or  on  the  drift-dogs  which 
lined  the  water's  edge.  It  was  too 
warm  for  continued  walking. 

Prom  some  of  the  smaller  vessels, 
easily  recognizable  as  of  the  same 
family  as  the  fruit-luggers  which  crowd 
around  "  Picayune  Tier  "  at  the  French 
market,  there  issued  sweet  songs  in  the 
soft  Italian  tongue,  often  accompanied 
by  the  accordeon. 

[139] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

Young  Love  sang  on  the  water  in 
half  a  dozen  tongues,  as  he  sings  there 
yet  at  every  summer  eventide. 

The  skiffs  for  the  most  part  kept 
fairly  close  to  the  shore,  skirting  the 
strong  current  of  the  channel,  avoid 
ing,  too,  the  large  steamboats,  whose 
passage  ever  jeopardized  the  small 
craft  which  crossed  in  their  wake. 

Indeed,  the  passage  of  one  of  these 
great  "  packets  "  generally  cleared  the 
midstream,  although  a  few  venture 
some  oarsmen  would  often  dare  fate  in 
riding  the  billows  in  her  wake.  These 
great  steamboats  were  known  among 
the  humble  river  folk  more  for  their 
wave-making  power  than  for  the  proud 
features  which  distinguished  them  in 
their  personal  relations. 

There  were  those,  for  instance,  who 
would  watch  for  a  certain  great  boat 
called  the  Capitol,  just  for  the  bravado 
of  essaying  the  bubbling  storm  which 
followed  her  keel,  while  some  who,  en 
joying  their  fun  with  less  snap  of  dan 
ger,  preferred  to  have  their  skiffs  dance 
[140] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

behind  the  Laurel  Hill.  Or  perhaps  it 
was  the  other  way:  it  may  have  been 
the  Laurel  Hilly  of  the  sphere-topped 
smoke-stacks,  which  made  the  more 
sensational  passage. 

It  all  happened  a  long  time  ago,  al 
though  only  about  thirteen  years  had 
passed  since  the  events  last  related,  and 
both  boats  are  dead.  At  least  they  are 
out  of  the  world  of  action,  and  let  us 
hope  they  have  gone  to  their  rest.  An 
old  hulk  stranded  ashore  and  awaiting 
final  dissolution  is  ever  a  pathetic  sight, 
suggesting  a  patient  paralytic  in  his 
chair,  grimly  biding  fate  —  the  waters 
of  eternity  at  his  feet. 

At  intervals,  this  evening,  fisher 
men  alongshore— old  negroes  mostly— 
pottered  among  the  rafts,  setting 
their  lines,  and  if  the  oarsmen  listened 
keenly,  they  might  almost  surely  have 
caught  from  these  gentle  toilers  short 
snatches  of  low-pitched  song,  hymns 
mostly,  of  content  or  rejoicing. 

There  was  no  sense  of  the  fitness  of 
the  words  when  an  ancient  fisher  sang 

[141] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

"  Sweet  fields  beyan'  de  swelling  flood," 
or  of  humor  in  "  How  firm  a  founda 
tion,"  chanted  by  one  standing  boot- 
deep  in  suspicious  sands.  The  favorite 
hymn  of  several  of  the  colored  fisher 
men,  however,  seemed  to  be  "  Cometh 
our  fount  of  every  blessin',"  frankly  so 
pronounced  with  reverent  piety. 

At  a  distant  end  of  his  raft,  hidden 
from  its  owner  by  a  jutting  point  from 
which  they  leaped,  naked  boys  waded 
and  swam,  jeering  the  deaf  singer  as 
they  jeered  each  passing  boat,  while 
occasionally  an  adventurous  fellow 
would  dive  quite  under  a  skiff,  seizing  his 
opportunity  while  the  oars  were  lifted. 

None  of  the  little  rowboats  carried 
sail  as  a  rule,  although  sometimes  a 
sloop  would  float  by  with  an  air  of 
commanding  a  squadron  of  the  sparse 
fleet  which  extended  along  the  length 
of  the  river. 

The  sun  was  fallen  nearly  to  the 
levee-line  this  evening  when  one  of  the 
finest  of  the  "  river  palaces "  hove  in 
sight. 

[142] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

The  sky-hour  for  "  dousing  the  great 
glim  "  was  so  near— and  the  actual  set 
ting  of  the  sun  is  always  sudden— that, 
while  daylight  still  prevailed,  all  the 
steamer's  lights  were  lit,  and  although 
the  keen  sun  which  struck  her  as  a 
search-light  robbed  her  thousand  lamps 
of  their  value,  the  whole  scene  was 
greater  for  the  full  illumination. 

The  people  along  shore  waved  to  the 
passing  boat  —  they  always  do  it— and 
the  more  amiable  of  the  passengers 
answered  with  flying  handkerchiefs. 

As  she  loomed  radiant  before  them, 
an  aged  negro,  sitting  mending  his  net, 
remarked  to  his  companion: 

"  What  do  she  look  like  to  you,  Br'er 
Jones?  " 

" '  What  she  look  like  to  me? ' "  The 
man  addressed  took  his  pipe  from  his 
lips  at  the  question.  "What  she  look 
like— to  me?"  he  repeated  again. 
"  Why,  tell  the  truf e,  I  was  jes'  study- 
in'  'bout  dat  when  you  spoke.  She 
'minds  me  o'  Heaven;  dat  what  she 
signifies  to  my  eyes— Heavenly  man- 
[143] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

sions.      What    do    she    look    like    to 
you?" 

"Well,"  the  man  shifted  the  quid  in 
his  mouth  and  lowered  his  shuttle  as  he 
said  slowly,  "  well,  to  my  observance, 
she  don't  answer  for  Heaven;  I  tell  yer 
dat:  not  wid  all  dat  black  smoke  risin' 
outen  'er  'bominable  regions.  She  's 
mo'  like  de  yether  place  to  me.  She 
may  have  Heavenly  gyarments  on,  but 
she  got  a  hell  breath,  sho'.  An'  listen 
at  de  band  o'  music  playin'  devil-dance 
time  inside  her!  An'  when  she  choose 
to  let  it  out,  she 's  got  a-a-nawful  snort 
—she  sho'  is!" 

"Does  you  mean  de  cali-ope?" 

"No;  she  ain't  got  no  cali-ope.  I 
means  her  clair  whistle.  Hit 's  got  a 
jedgment-day  sound  in  it  to  my  ears." 

"  Dat  music  you  heah',  dat  ain't  no 
dance-music.  She  plays  dat  for  de  pas 
sengers  to  eat  by,  so  dey  tell  me.  But 
I  reckon  dey  jes  p'onounces  supper 
dat-a-way,  same  as  you  'd  ring  a  bell. 
An'  when  de  people  sets  down  to  de 
table,  dey  mus'  sho'ly  have  de  man- 
[144] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

ners  to  stop  long  enough  to  let  'em  eat 
in  peace.  Yit  an'  still,  whilst  she  looks 
like  Heaven,  I  'd  a  heap  ruther  set  heah 
an'  see  her  go  by  'n  to  put  foot  in  her, 
'ca'se  I  'd  look  for  her  to  'splode  out  de 
minute  I  landed  in  her  an'  to  scatter 
my  body  in  one  direction  an'  my  soul 
somewhars  else.  No;  even  ef  she  was 
Heaven,  I  'd  ruther  'speriment  heah  a 
little  longer,  settin'  on  de  sof  grass  an' 
smellin'  de  yearnin'  trees  an'  listenin' 
at  de  bumblebees  a-bumblin',  an'  go 
home  an'  warm  up  my  bacon  an'  greens 
for  supper,  an'  maybe  go  out  foragin' 
for  my  Sunday  chicken  to-night  in  de 
dark  o'  de  moon.  Hyah!  My  stomach 
hit  rings  de  dinner-bell  for  me,  jes  as 
good  as  a  brass  ban'." 

"Me,  too!"  chuckled  the  smoker. 
"I  '11  take  my  chances  on  dry  Ian', 
every  time.  I  know  I  '11  nuver  lead  a 
p'ocession  but  once-t,  and  dat  '11  be  at 
my  own  fun'al,  an'  I  don't  inten'  to  resk 
my  chances.  But  she  is  sho'  one  noble- 
lookin'  boat. 

By  this  time  the  great  steamboat— 
[145] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

the  wonderful  apparition  so  aptly  typi 
fying  Heaven  and  hell— had  passed. 

She  carried  only  the  usual  number  of 
passengers,  but  at  this  evening  hour 
they  crowded  the  guards,  making  a 
brilliant  showing.  Family  parties  they 
were  mostly,  with  here  and  there  groups 
of  young  folk,  generally  collected  about 
some  popular  girl  who  formed  a  center 
around  which  coquetry  played  mirth 
fully  in  the  breeze.  A  piquant  Arcadian 
bride,  "pretty  as  red  shoes,"  artlessly 
appearing  in  all  her  white  wedding  tog 
gery,  her  veil  almost  crushed  by  its 
weight  of  artificial  orange-flowers, 
looked  stoically  away  from  the  little 
dark  husband  who  persisted  in  fanning 
her  vigorously,  while  they  sat  in  the 
sun-filled  corner  which  they  had  taken 
for  its  shade  while  the  boat  was  turned 
into  the  landing  to  take  them  aboard. 
And,  of  course,  there  was  the  usual 
quota  of  staid  couples  who  had  survived 
this  interesting  stage  of  life's  game. 

Nor  was  exhibition  of  rather  intimate 
domesticity  entirely  missing.  Infancy 
[146] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

dined  in  Nature's  own  way,  behind  the 
doubtful  screening  of  waving  palmetto 
fans.  While  among  the  teething  and 
whooping-cough  contingents  the  ob 
server  of  life  might  have  found  both 
tragedy  and  comedy  for  his  delectation. 

Mild,  submissive  mothers  of  families, 
women  of  the  Creole  middle  class 
mainly,— old  and  withered  at  thirty- 
five,  all  their  youthful  magnolia  tints 
gone  wrong,  as  in  the  flower  when  its 
bloom  is  passed— exchanged  maternal 
experiences,  and  agreed  without  dis 
sent  that  the  world  was  full  of  trouble, 
but  "  God  was  good." 

Even  a  certain  slight  maternal  wisp 
who  bent  over  a  tiny  waxen  thing  upon 
her  lap,  dreading  each  moment  to  per 
ceive  the  flicker  in  her  breath  which 
would  show  that  a  flame  went  out  — 
even  she,  poor  tear-dimmed  soul,  said 
it  while  she  answered  sympathetic  in 
quiry: 

"Oh,  yas;  it  is  for  her  we  are  taking 
de  trip.    Yas,  she  is  very  sick,  mais 
God  is  good.    It  is  de  eye-teet'.    De 
[147] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

river's  breath  it  is  de  bes'  medicine. 
De  doctor  he  prescribe  it.  An'  my 
father  he  had  las'  winter  such  a  so 
much  trouble  to  work  his  heart,  an'  so, 
seeing  we  were  coming,  he  is  also  here 
-  yas,  dat  's  heem  yonder,  asleep.  'T  is 
his  most  best  sleep  for  a  year,  lying  so. 
De  river  she  give  it.  An'  dose  ferry 
boat  dey  got  always  on  board  too  much 
whooping-cough  to  fasten  on  to  eye- 
teet." 

Somewhat  apart  from  the  other  pas 
sengers,  their  circle  loosely  but  surely 
defined  by  the  irregular  setting  of  their 
chairs  toward  a  common  center,  sat  a 
group,  evidently  of  the  great  world— 
most  conspicuous  among  them  a  dis 
tinguished-looking  couple  in  fresh  mid- 
life,  who  led  the  animated  discussion, 
and  who  were  seen  often  to  look  in  the 
direction  of  a  tall  and  beautiful  girl  who 
stood  in  the  midst  of  a  circle  of  young 
people  within  easy  call.  It  was  impos 
sible  not  to  see  that  their  interest  in 
the  girl  was  vital,  for  they  often  ex- 
[148] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

changed  glances  when  her  laughter 
filled  the  air,  and  laughed  with  her, 
although  they  knew  only  that  she  had 
laughed. 

The  girl  stood  well  in  sight,  although 
"surrounded  six  deep"  by  an  adoring 
crowd;  nor  was  this  attributable  alone 
to  her  height  which  set  her  fine  little 
head  above  most  of  her  companions. 
A  certain  distinction  of  manner— unre 
lated  to  haughtiness,  which  may  fail  in 
effect,  or  arrogance,  which  may  over 
ride  but  never  appeal  ;  perhaps  it  was 
a  graciousness  of  bearing  —  kept  her 
admirers  ever  at  a  tasteful  distance. 

There  was  an  ineffable  charm  about 
the  girl,  a  thing  apart  from  the  unusual 
beauty  which  marked  her  in  any  gather 
ing  of  which  she  became  a  part. 

Descriptions  are  hazardous  and  avail 
able  words  often  inadequate  to  the 
veracious  presentment  of  beauty,  and 
yet  there  is  ever  in  perfection  a  chal 
lenge  to  the  pen. 

As  the  maiden  stood  this  evening  in 
the  sunlight,  her  radiant  yellow  hair 
[149] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

complementing  the  blue  of  her  sea- 
deep  eyes,  her  fair  cheeks  aglow,  and 
one  color  melting  to  another  in  her 
quick  movements,  the  effect  was  almost 
like  an  iridescence.  Tender  in  tints  as 
a  sea-shell,  there  might  have  been 
danger  of  lapse  into  insipidity  but 
for  the  accent  of  dark  rims  and  curled 
lashes  which  individualized  the  eyes, 
and,  too,  the  strong,  straight  lines  of 
her  contour,  which,  more  than  the  note 
of  dark  color,  marked  her  a  Le  Due. 

There  are  some  women  who  natu 
rally  hold  court,  no  matter  what  the 
conditions  of  life,  and  to  whom  tribute 
comes  as  naturally  as  the  air  they 
breathe.  It  often  dates  back  into  their 
spelling-class  days,  and  I  am  not  sure 
that  it  does  not  occasionally  begin  in 
the  "  perambulator." 

This  magnetic  quality —one  hesitates 
to  use  an  expression  so  nervously  pros 
trated  by  strenuous  overwork,  and  yet 
it  is  well  made  and  to  hand— this  mag 
netic  quality,  then,  was  probably,  in 
Agnes  Le  Due,  the  gift  of  the  Latin 
[150] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

strain  grafted  upon  New  England  stur- 
diness  and  reserve,  the  one  answering, 
as  one  might  say,  for  ballast,  while  the 
other  lent  sail  for  the  equable  poising 
of  a  safe  and  brilliant  life-craft. 

So,  also,  was  her  unusual  beauty 
markedly  a  composite  and  of  elements 
so  finely  contrasting  that  their  har 
monizing  seemed  rather  a  succession 
of  flashes,  as  of  opposite  electric  cur 
rents  meeting  and  breaking  through 
the  caprice  of  temperamental  distur 
bance  ;  as  in  the  smile  which  won  by  its 
witchery,  or  the  illumination  with  which 
rapid  thought  or  sudden  pity  kindled 
her  eye. 

Educated  alternately  in  Louisiana 
where  she  had  recited  her  history  les 
sons  in  French,  and  in  New  England,  the 
pride  and  pet  of  a  charmed  Cambridge 
circle,  with  occasional  trips  abroad  with 
her  "parents,"  she  was  emerging,  all 
unknowingly,  a  rather  exceptional 
young  woman  for  any  place  or  time. 

Seeing  her  this  evening, an  enthusiast 
might  have  likened  her  to  the  exquisite 

[151] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

bud  of  a  great  tea-rose,  regal  on  a  slen 
der  stem— shy  of  unfolding,  yet  ulti 
mately  unafraid,  even  through  the 
dewy  veil  of  immaturity— knowing  full 
well,  though  she  might  not  stop  to  re 
member,  the  line  of  court  roses  in  her 
pedigree. 

Watching  her  so  at  a  safe  distance, 
one  could  not  help  wondering  that  she 
thought  it  worth  her  while  to  listen  at 
all,  seeing  how  her  admirers  waited 
upon  her  every  utterance.  To  listen 
well  has  long  been  considered  a  grace 
—just  to  listen;  but  there  is  a  still 
higher  art,  perhaps,  in  going  a  step 
beyond.  It  is  to  listen  with  enthu 
siasm,  yes,  even  with  eloquence.  One 
having  a  genius  for  this  sort  of  oratory, 
speaking  through  the  inspired  utter 
ance  of  another,  and  of  course  supply 
ing  the  inspiration,  gains  easily  the 
reputation  of  "delightful  conversa 
tional  powers." 

And  this  was  precisely  an  unsus 
pected  quality  which  made  for  the 
sweet  girl  much  of  the  popularity  which 
[1521 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

she  had  never  analyzed  or  questioned. 
She  could  talk,  and  in  several  lan 
guages,  familiarly,  and  when  the  invi 
tation  arrived,  she  did— upward,  with  re 
spect,  to  her  elders  (she  had  learned 
that  both  in  New  Orleans  and  in  Bos 
ton);  downward  to  her  inferiors— with 
gentle  directness,  unmixed  with  over- 
condescension;  to  right  and  to  left 
among  her  companions,  quite  as  a  free 
hearted  girl,  with  spirit  and  camarad 
erie. 

A  quality,  this,  presaging  social  suc 
cess  certainly,  and,  it  must  be  admitted, 
it  is  a  quality  which  sometimes  adorns 
natures  wanting  in  depth  of  affection. 
That  this  was  not  true  of  Agnes  Le 
Due,  however,  seems  to  be  clearly 
shown  in  an  incident  of  this  trip. 

As  she  stood  with  her  companions 
this  evening,  while  one  and  another 
commented  upon  this  or  that  feature 
of  the  shore,  they  came  suddenly  upon 
a  congregation  of  negroes  encircling  an 
inlet  between  two  curves  in  the  levee, 
and,  as  the  low  sun  shone  clearly  into 
10  [153] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

the  crowd,  it  became  immediately  plain 
that  a  baptism  was  in  progress. 

A  line  of  women,  robed  in  white,  stood 
on  one  side;  several  men,  likewise  in 
white,  on  the  other,  while  the  minister, 
knee-deep  in  the  water,  was  immers 
ing  a  subject  who  shouted  wildly  as  he 
went  under  and  came  up  struggling  as 
one  in  a  fit,  while  two  able-bodied  men 
with  difficulty  bore  him  ashore. 

The  scene  was  scarcely  one  to  inspire 
reverence  to  a  casual  observer,  and 
there  was  naturally  some  merriment 
at  its  expense.  One  playful  comment 
led  to  another  until  a  slashing  bit  of 
ridicule  brought  the  entire  ceremony 
into  derision,  and,  as  it  happened,  the 
remark  with  its  accompanying  mimicry 
was  addressed  to  Agnes. 

"Oh,  please!"  she  pleaded,  coloring 
deeply.  "  I  quite  understand  how  it  may 
affect  you;  but— oh,  it  is  too  serious  for 
here— too  personal  and  too  sacred— 

While  she  hesitated,  the  culprit, 
ready  to  crawl  at  her  feet,— innocent, 
indeed,  of  the  indelicacy  of  which  he 
[154] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

had  become  technically  guilty,— begged 
to  be  forgiven.  He  had  quite  truly 
"  meant  no  harm." 

"Oh,  I  am  quite  sure  of  it,"  the  girl 
smiled;  "but  now  that  I  have  spoken, 
—and  really  I  could  not  help  it;  I  could 
not  wish  to  let  it  pass,  understand,— 
but  now  that  I  have  spoken— oh,  what 
shall  I  say! 

"Perhaps  you  will  understand  me 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  should  not  be 
with  you  here  to-day  but  for  the  de 
voted  care  of  two  old  Christian  people 
who  dated  their  joy  in  the  spiritual  life 
from  precisely  such  a  ceremony  as  this. 
They  are  in  Heaven  now. 

"  My  dear  old  Mammy  often  said  that 
she  *  went  under  the  water  groaning  in 
sin,  and  came  up  shouting,  a  saved 
soul ! '  I  seem  to  hear  her  again  as  I  re 
peat  the  words,  on  this  same  river,  in 
sight  of  her  people  and  within  the  sound 
of  their  voices.  I  was  small  when  she 
died,  and  I  do  not  clearly  remember 
many  of  her  words;  but  this  I  do  well 
recall,  for  we  lived  for  some  years  on 
[155] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

the  river-bank,  only  a  few  miles  from 
the  spot  where  in  her  youth  she  had 
been  immersed.  She  taught  me  to 
love  the  river,  and  perhaps  I  am  a  little 
sentimental  over  it.  I  hope  always  to 
be  so.  My  father  remembers  many  of 
her  words.  She  was  his  nurse,  too. 
She  told  him  as  a  boy  that  she  had 
insisted  on  being  baptized  in  flowing 
water,  so  that  her  sins  might  be  carried 
away  to  the  sea.  It  was  all  very  sacred 
to  her." 

Of  course  the  romantic  story  of 
Agnes's  youth  was  known  to  every  one 
present,  and  this  unexpected  allusion 
awakened  immediate  interest. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied  to  a  question; 
"  I  suppose  I  do  remember  a  good  deal, 
considering  how  very  young  I  was,  and 
yet  I  often  wonder  that  I  do  not  re 
member  more,  as  it  was  all  so  un 
usual  ; "  and  then  she  added,  laughing  : 
"I  seem  to  forget  that  no  event  could 
surprise  a  child  in  her  first  experiences 
of  life.  Yet  I  remember  trivial  things, 
as,  for  instance,  the  losing  of  a  hat.  I 
[156] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

clearly  recall  our  watching  my  hat  on 
one  occasion  when  it  blew  into  the 
river,  and  was  never  recovered  I  Think 
of  the  tragedy  of  it!  I  can  see  it  now, 
tossing  like  a  little  boat,  as  it  floated 
away. 

"  And  the  funny  little  cabin  I  remem 
ber—I  know  I  do,  for  there  were  things 
which  papa  never  saw,  on  the  inside,  in 
what  he  calls  my  *  boudoir,'  the  white 
cabin,  which  I  shall  never  forget.  When 
anything  is  kept  ever  in  mind  by  con 
stant  description,  it  is  hard  to  know 
how  much  one  really  remembers.  You 
know,  papa  spent  only  one  night  there 
and  his  thoughts  were  turned  back 
ward,  so  that  he  naturally  kept  only 
vague  impressions  of  the  place. 

"Yes,  he  has  made  a  sketch  of  it 
from  memory,  and  I  am  sorry.  Why? 
Oh,  because  I  was  sure  at  first  that 
it  was  not  correct,  and  now  it  has 
come  to  stand  to  me  in  place  of  the 
true  picture,  which  has  faded.  It  is  a 
way  with  pictures  if  we  let  them  over 
ride  us.  Why,  my  grandmother  in 

1167] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

Boston  has  a  friend  who  had  his  wife's 
portrait  painted  after  she  was  lost  at 
sea.  He  spent  all  the  money  he  had  to 
have  it  done  by  a  '  best  artist  who  had 
made  a  hasty  sketch  of  her  in  life,'  and 
when  it  came  home  he  did  not  recognize 
it— really  thought  a  mistake  had  been 
made.  Then,  seeing  that  it  was  she  as 
authoritatively  'pictured,  and  that  he 
had  paid  his  all  to  get  it,  he  bethought 
him  to  study  it,  hoping  some  day  to 
find  her  in  it.  And  so  he  did,  gradu 
ally. 

"He  had  it  hung  over  his  smoking- 
table,  and  every  evening  he  scrutinized 
it  until  its  insistence  conquered.  For 
a  whole  year  he  lived  in  the  compan 
ionship  of  an  absent  wife  as  seen  in  an 
artist's  mood  (this  last  sentence  is  a 
direct  quotation  from  my  Boston  grand- 
mama,  who  is  fond  of  the  story).  And 
—well,  'what  happened?'  Why,  this: 
One  day  the  woman  came  home.  Peo 
ple  Most  at  sea'  occasionally  do,  you 
know.  And  would  you  believe  it?  Her 
widower— I  mean  to  say  her  husband— 
[158] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

refused  to  receive  her.  He  did  not  know 
her  !  He  simply  pointed  to  the  painting 
and  shook  his  head.  And  if  she  had 
n't  been  a  person  of  resolution  and  re 
source,— descended  from  the  Mayflower, 
—why,  she  would  have  had  to  go  away. 
But  she  had  her  trunk  brought  in  and 
quietly  paid  the  expressman  and  took 
off  her  bonnet— and  stayed.  But  it 
was  an  absurdly  long  time  before  her 
husband  was  wholly  convinced  that  he 
was  not  the  victim  of  an  adventuress. 
And  she  says  that  even  now  he  some 
times  looks  at  her  in  a  way  she  does 
not  like. 

"So,  you  see,  we  cannot  always  be 
lieve  our  own  eyes,  which  are  so  easily 
tricked. 

"  Still,  even  knowing  all  this,  we  con 
sent  to  be  duped.  Now  I  like  the  pic 
ture  of  the  cabin,  even  while  I  regret 
it,  and,  although  I  know  better,  I  accept 
it. 

"What  is  truth,  anyway?  That  is 
what  you  hear  said  so  often  in  Boston, 
where  we  are  said  to  try  to  make  pivots 
[159] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

of  it  for  the  wheels  of  all  our  little  hob 
bies. 

"'  Do  I  like  Boston? '  Like  Boston  ? 
No.  I  adore  it!  Oh,  yes!  But  yet,  when 
I  am  there,  I  am  a  little  rebel.  And  at 
each  place  I  am  quite  honest,  I  assure 
you.  You  see,  I  have  a  grandmother 
at  both  places —here  and  there.  Such 
dears,  they  are— adorable,  both,  and  so 
different! 

"Yes,  that  is  true.  Papa's  portrait, 
the  one  Mammy  had  in  the  cabin,— yes, 
we  have  it,— twice  recovered  from  the 
river.  My  father  offered  a  reward,  and 
a  man  brought  it  out  of  the  mud,  a 
little  way  down  the  levee,  and  not 
seriously  hurt.  It  is  a  funny  little 
picture  of  papa  at  six,  in  a  Highland 
costume,  with  his  arm  over  a  strange 
dog  which  belonged  to  the  artist.  He 
looks  in  the  picture  as  if  he  were 
stuffed— the  dog  does;  but  papa  denies 
that.  I  believe  this  same  dog  appeared 
in  most  of  the  portraits  done  by  this 
man,  in  all  of  those  of  boys,  at  least. 
For  the  girls  he  supplied  a  cat,  or 
[160] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

occasionally  a  parrot.  The  bird  was 
stuffed,  I  believe.  He  did  my  step 
mother  at  five,  and  she  holds  the  cat. 
The  portraits  hang  side  by  side  now. 
If  we  could  find  him,  and  the  parrot, 
he  should  paint  me,  and  we  would  start 
a  menagerie. 

"Oh,  yes;  going  back  to  the  subject, 
there  are  many  little  things  which  I 
remember,  without  a  doubt,  for  I  could 
never  imagine  them.  For  instance,  1 
remember  at  least  one  of  my  baptisms— 
the  last,  I  suppose.  I  know  I  was  fright 
ened  because  the  minister  shouted,  and 
Mammy  kept  whispering  to  me  that  he 
would  n't  harm  me;  and  then  he  sud 
denly  threw  water  all  over  me  and  I 
bawled.  No,  I  have  no  idea  who  he  was ; 
but  it  was  out  of  doors,  and  there  was  a 
rooster  in  it  someway.  I  suppose  it  was 
on  the  levee  and  the  rooster  came  to 
see  what  was  happening. 

"  There  is  a  picture  which  always  re 
minds  me  of  the  time  we  lived  behind 
the  woodpiles,  that  called  'The  Soldier's 
Dream,'  in  which  a  poor  fellow,  asleep 

[161] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

on  the  battle-field,  sees  dimly,  as  in  the 
sky,  a  meeting  between  himself  and  his 
family. 

"I  am  sure  that  while  we  sat  on  the 
levee  and  Mammy  talked  to  me  of 
papa's  coming,  I  used  to  picture  it  all 
against  the  sunset  sky.  Just  look  at  it 
now.  Was  anything  ever  more  gor 
geous  and  at  the  same  time  so  ten 
der?  One  could  easily  imagine  almost 
any  miracle's  happening  over  there  in 
the  west. 

"  Yes,  I  know  the  skies  of  Italy,  and 
they  're  no  better.  They  are  bluer  and 
pinker,  perhaps,  in  a  more  paintable 
way;  but  when  the  sun  sets  across  the 
Mississippi,  especially  when  we  have 
their  dreamy  cloud  effects,  it  goes  down 
with  variation  and  splendor  unmatched 
anywhere,  I  do  believe.  But,"  she 
added  with  a  Frenchy  shrug,  "you 
know  I  am  only  a  river  child,  and  every 
thing  belonging  to  the  old  muddy 
stream  is  dear  to  me. 

"I  beg  your  pardon— what  did  you 
ask?"    This   to   a   very   young    man 
[162] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

who  colored  after  he  had  spoken.  "Did 
we  ever  recover  —  ?  Oh,  no.  Their 
bodies  went  with  the  waters  they  loved 
—and  it  was  better  so.  Certainly,  papa 
used  every  effort.  I  hope  the  current 
carried  them  to  the  sea.  She  would 
have  liked  to  have  it  so,  I  am  sure,  dear, 
dear  Mammy  Hannah! 

"Oh,  yes.  The  little  monument  on 
Brake  Island  is  only  *  in  memory,'  as  its 
inscription  says." 

This  was  rather  thoughtful  talk  for 
a  girl  scarcely  eighteen,  but  Agnes  had 
ever  been  thoughtful,  and  by  common 
inheritance— from  her  mother  and  her 
father. 

As  the  scene  shifted,  and  conversa 
tion  passed  to  lighter  things,  and  her 
laughter  rippled  again  as  a  child's,  its 
range  was  sometimes  startling.  It  was 
as  brilliant  as  a  waterfall  seen  in  the 
sun,  and  often  while  her  fond  father 
watched  her,  as  now,  he  wondered  if,  per 
chance,  her  laughter  might  not  be  pro 
phetic  of  a  great  career  for  which  eyes 
[163] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

less  devoted  than  his  perceived  her  emi 
nently  fitted. 

It  is  beyond  the  province  of  this  tale 
of  the  river  to  follow  Agnes  Le  Due 
through  life.  Some  day,  possibly,  her 
story  may  be  fully  told;  but  perhaps  a 
foreshadowing  of  her  future,  in  one 
phase  of  it  at  least,  may  be  discerned 
in  an  intimation  let  fall  by  one  of  the 
passengers  who  sat  with  his  companions 
at  a  card-table  in  the  fore  cabin.  At 
least,  they  had  spent  the  day  there, 
stopping  not  even  for  dinner,  and  now 
they  were  moving  away.  As  they  found 
seats  out  on  the  guards,  he  was  saying: 

"'Rich!'  Well,  I  would  say  so!  He 
own  all  doze  plantation  around  de  town 
of  Waterproof,  and  de  strange  part  is 
he  paid  twice  for  some  of  dem !  Of 
co'se  he  could  not  do  such  a  so -foolish 
t'ing  except  he  made  dat  invention. 
W'en  you  begin  to  collec'  so  much  on 
every  one  of  anyt'ing  dat  fill  a  want, 
you  get  rich,  sure  ! 

"No  matter  if  it  jus'  one  picayune— 
[164] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

w'en  dey  sell  enough.  Dey  say  you  can 
make  sugar  so  quick  by  dat  machine  he 
invent— it  is  like  conjuring— a  sort  of 
hoodoo ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  his  companion,  an  Ameri 
can,  "so  I  understand;  and  there  is  no 
man  I  would  rather  see  rich  than  Harold 
Le  Due.  His  marriage,  so  soon  after 
the  recovery  of  his  child,  surprised  some 
of  us,  but  no  doubt  it  was  a  good  thing." 

"A  good  t'ing  !  It  was  magnificent! 
If  he  is  one  of  de  finest  men  in  Lou 
isiana,  she  is  equal  to  him.  Dat  re 
mark  dat  he  married  only  for  a  mudder 
for  his  child— dat 's  all  in  my  heye!  I 
am  sure  he  was  in  love  to  her  one  year, 
maybe  two,  befo9  dat— mats,  I  am  not 
sure  he  would  have  asked  any  woman 
to  marry  him.  He  had  not  de  courage. 
For  him  love  was  past— and  he  was 
afraid  of  it.  Mais  de  chil'  she  wake 
him  up  again!  Oh,  it  is  a  good  t'ing, 
sure  !  An'  de  strange  part,  she  fought 
she  wou'n'  never  love  again,  jus'  de 
same  as  him— until— " 

"Until  what?" 

[165] 


THE  RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

"Well,  until  he  spoke!  Until  w'at 
you  fink?" 

"Nofing.  I  fought  maybe  it  was 
somef  ing  unusual." 

"  Well,  an'  is  dat  not  somet'ing  un 
usual— w'en  a  widow  is  sure  she  will 
not  love  again?  Dey  often  t'ink  so, 
mais  she  was  absolutely  sure!  You 
see,  her  first  husband  he  was  one  hero; 
he  fell  on  de  same  battle-field  wid  gal 
lant  'Jeb'  Stuart— from  a  stray  shot 
w'en  de  fighting  was  over,  carrying  dat 
poor  imbecile,  Philippe  Delmaire,  off  de 
fieP,  biccause  he  was  yelling  so,  wid  dat 
one  li'l'  toe  he  los' !  A  good  fellow,  yas, 
mais  no  account !  Yas,  he  drank  him 
self  to  deaf,  all  on  account  for  de  loss 
of  dat  toe,  so  he  say.  Excuses  dey  are 
cheap,  yas.  If  it  was  not  his  toe  it  would 
have  been  somet'ing  else.  You  know, 
his  figure,  it  was  really  perfection,  no 
mistake,  an'  to  lose  perfection,  even  in 
so  small  a  matter  as  one  toe— it  prey  on 
his  mind.  Tell  de  truf,  I  used  to  feel 
sorry  for  him,  an'— an'— w'en  he  always 
would  touch  his  glass  an'  drink  dat 
[166] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

favorite  toast,  'To  my  big  toe!'  well, 
dere  was  somet'ing  pitiful  in  it.  I  used 
to  drink  it  wid  him.  It  was  no  harm, 
an'  he  had  always  good  wine,  poor  fel 
low.  Mais  to  fink  of  Paul  de  La  Rose 
dying  for  him !  It  make  me  mad,  yet 
w'en  I  t'ink  so,  I  am  almos'  sorry  to  re 
flect  I  have  drunk  to  his  toe!  Bah— a 
valu'ble  man— to  die  like  dat!  Wat 
you  say?  Yas,  da 's  true.  It  makes  not 
how  de  soldier  fall— de  glory  is  de  same. 
Well,  any'ow,  if  he  could  have  picked 
out  a  successor,  he  could  not  have  done 
better  dan  yo'ng  Le  Due— sure!  Wat 
you  say?  "Ow  is  he  bought  doze 
plantation  twice?'  Well,  dis  way: 
Wen  he  had  to  take  dem  on  mortgage, 
an'  dey  were  sold  at  de  door  of  de  court 
house—bidding  against  him,  under 
stand  —  no  rainy-day  sale  —  he  paid 
double— I  mean  to  say  he  paid  so  much 
as  de  mortagage  again.  Not  in  every 
case,  mais  in  many— to  widows.  I 
know  two  cousin  of  mine,  he  paid  dem 
so.  I  ricollec'  dey  tol'  me  dat  he  was 
de  mos'  remembering  man  to  look  out 
[167] 


THE  RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

for  dem,  an'  de  mos'  forgetting  to  sen' 
de  bills. 

"  Oh,  yas.  An'  his  daughter,  dey  say 
she  is  in  love  to  her  stepmother— an' 
she  is  jus'  so  foolish  about  de  chil'— an' 
wid  good  reason.  She  had  never  chil 
dren  —  an'  she  is  proud  for  dat  daugh 
ter,  an'  jealous,  too,  of  dose  Yankee 
ri Hation.  Still,  she  invite  dem  to  come 
every  year,  so  the  chil'  can  stay  —  an' 
now,  would  you  believe  it?  Dey  are 
come  to  be  great  friends,  mais,  of 
co'se,  her  father  sends  her  every  year 
at  Boston  to  her  grandmother.  Dey  all 
want  her,  an'  no  wonder.  If  she  was 
one  mud  fence,  I  suppose  it  would  be 
all  de  same,  mais  you  know,  she  is 
one  great  beauty!  I  say  one  gr-r-r-reat 
beauty!  Wh!  An'w'enlwhistlesoVh!' 
I  mean  w'at  I  say.  You  see  me  so,  I  am 
one  oP  man,  now— pas'  forty— an'  rich 
in  children,  an'  not  bad-looking  children, 
neither;  mais  I  would  walk,  me,  all 
de  way  from  de  barracks  up  to  Bou- 
ligny,  an9  back,  just  to  see  her  pass  in 
de  street  an'  smile  on  me.  You  take 
[168] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

my  word,  if  she  is  not  snapped  up  by 
some  school-boy,  she  can  marry  any- 
t'ing—a  coronet!  An'  I  know  something 
about  women— not  to  brag." 

"If  you  are  so  anxious  to  see  dat 
young  lady,  Felix,"  said  another,  "  you 
don't  need  to  walk  so  far.  She  is,  at 
dis  moment,  wid  her  father  an'  her 
stepmudder,  on  dis  trip." 

"Wat!  w'atyousay?  Well,  wait.  I 
di'n'  inten',  me,  to  dress  for  de  ladies' 
cabin  to-night,  mais  w'en  I  have  my 
supper  I  will  put  on  my  Sunday  t'ings 
—jus'  to  go  an'  sit  down  in  de  cabin 
w'ere—  I  —can  —  look  —  at  innocent— 
beauty!  It  pleasure  me,  yas,  to  see  some 
t'ing  like  dat.  Maybe  I  am  not  all  good, 
mais  1  am  not  all  given  over  for  bad  so 
long  I  can  enjoy  a  rose- vine  all  in 
pink,  or  a  fair  yo'ng  girl  more  beautiful 
yet. 

"  I  tell  you,  my  friends,  I  was  sitting, 
week  before  las',  at  my  'ouse  on  Es 
planade  Street,  on  de  back  gallerie, 
w'ere  de  vines  is  t'ick,  an'  dey  were,  as 
you  might  say,  honey-suckling  de  bees 
11  [169] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

—an'  de  perfume  from  my  night-bloom- 
in'  jasmine  filled  my  nose.  It  was  in 
de  evening,  an'  de  moon  on  de  blue 
sky  was  like  a  map  of  de  city,  jus'  a 
silver  crescent,  an'  close  by,  one  li'l' 
star,  shining,  as  de  children  say,  *  like  a 
diamond  in  de  sky,'  an'  I  tell  you— I 
tell  you— 

"  Well,  I  tell  you,  /  wished  I  had  been 
a  good  man  all  my  life  !  " 

His  friends  laughed  gaily  at  this. 

"  You  don'  say ! "  laughed  one.  "  Well, 
you  fooled  us,  any'ow  !  I  was  holding 
my  breat'.  I  fought  somet'ing  was 
getting  ready  to  happen  ! " 

"Well-an'   ain't   dat    somet'ing?- 
w'en  a  hard  ol'  sinner  like  me  can  see 
in  nature  a  t'ing  sweet  an'  good  an'- 
an9  resolute  himself!  " 

"Sure,  dat  is  a  great  happening  ; 
mais  for  such  a  freginning,  so  dramatic, 
we  expected  to  see  Hamlet— or  maybe 
his  father's  ghost— or  somet'ing  !  " 

"  I  am  thinking  more  of  this  excep 
tional  beauty"— it  was  the  American 
who  interrupted  now— "I  am  more  in- 
[170] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

terested  in  her  than  in  the  confessions 
of  old  sinners  like  ourselves.  I  am 
rather  practical,  and  beauty  is  only 
skin-deep  —  sometimes  at  least.  I 
should  like  to  take  a  peep  at  this  rare 
product  of  our  State.  Louisiana's  record 
up  to  date  is  hard  to  beat,  in  this  re 
spect." 

"Well,"  slowly  remarked  the  man 
known  throughout  as  Felix,  "  I  am  not 
telling!  If  I  knew,  I  could  not  tell, 
and,  of  co'se,  it  is  all  guess-work,  mais 
you  may  believe  me  or  not—"  he 
lowered  his  voice,  suggesting  mystery. 
"  I  say  you  can  riffuse  to  believe  me  or 
not,  I  was— well,  I  was  not  long  ago, 
one  day,  sitting  at  de  table  down 
at  Leon's,— eating  an  oyster  wid  a 
friend  of  mine,  and,  looking  out  of  de 
window,  I  happened  to  see,  sitting  in  a 
tree,  one  IVV  bird— jus'  one  small  KT 
bird,  no  bigger  dan  yo'  t'umb. 

"  I  was   not   finking  about  de  bird, 

mind    you.       We    were    jus'    talking 

about  anyt'ing  in  partic'lar  —  I  mean 

to  say  not'ing  in  general.     Wat  is  de 

11*  [171] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

matter  wid  me  to-day?  I  cannot  talk 
straight  —  my  tongue  is  all  twis'.  I 
say  we  were  speaking  of  partic'lar 
t'ings  in  general,  an'  he  remarked  to 
me,  'Who  you  Pink  will  be  de  Queen  of 
de  Carnival  dis  coming  Mardi  Gras  ? ' 

66 1  was  pouring  a  glass  of  Chateau 
Yquem  at  de  time,—  to  look  after  de 
oysters, —  an'  I  di'n'  pay  so  much  at 
tention  to  w'at  he  was  saying  —  I  can 
never  pour  a  glass  an'  speak  at  de 
same  time.  I  spill  my  words  or  de 
wine,  sure.  So  it  happened  dat  w'en 
I  put  me  de  bottle  down,  my  eye 
passed  out  de  window.  Oh,  hush !  No, 
not  my  eye,  of  co'se  —  I  mean  my 
sight.  Well,  dat  liT  bird  it  was  still 
waiting  in  the  same  place,  in  de  mag 
nolia-tree,  an'  w'en  I  looked,  it  give 
me  one  glance,  sideways,  like  a  finger 
on  de  nose,  an'  it  opened  wide  its  bill, 
an'  just  so  plain  as  I  am  speaking  now,{£ 
spoke  a  name"  This  in  still  lower  voice. 

"  But  I  said  nothing,  immediately.  A 
little  wine,  for  a  few  glasses,  it  make 
me  prudent  —  up  to  a  certain  point,  of 
[172] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

co'se.  Mats,  direc'ly,  I  looked  at  my 
friend,  an'  wid  w'at  you  might  call  an 
air  of  nonchalance,  I  repeat  to  him  de 
name  exac'ly  as  it  was  tol'  to  me  by  de 
li'l'  bird  in  de  magnolia-tree.  An' 
wa't  you  t'ink  he  said  ?  " 

"  Oh,  go  on.     W'at  he  say?" 

"You  want  to  know  w'at  he  said? 
Well,  dat  I  can  tell  you.  He  was 
greatly  astonish',  an'  he  whispered  to 
me,  'Who  tol9  you  ?  You  are  not  in  de 
Pickwick?999 

"Oh,  a  little  bird  tol'  me!"  I  an 
swered  him.  "No,  I  am  not  in  de  club.99 

" But  the  name  ?     Do  tell  us!99 

"Oh,  no.  I  cannot.  If  I  told,  dat 
would  be  telling,  eh?" 

"Sure!  It  is  not  necessary,"  said 
another.  "  Well,  I  am  pleased,  me." 

"An9  me!" 

"  I  like  always  to  listen  w'en  you  tell 
somet'ing,  Felix.  Your  story  is  all 
right  —  an'  /  believe  you.  I  always  be 
lieve  any  man  in  de  Pickwick  Club  — 
on  some  subjects!  Mais,  ol'  man,  de 
nex'  time  you  make  a  story  at  Leon's 
[173] 


THE   RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

restaurant,  suppose  you  move  off  dat 
magnolia-tree.  A  bird  could  stand  on 
de  window-sill  across  de  street  jus'  as 
well  —  a  real  window-sill." 

"  T'ank  you.  I  am  sure  a  real  some- 
t'ing-to-stand-on  would  be  better  for  a 
real  bird.  Mais,  for  dis  particular  bird, 
I  t'ink  my  magnolia  is  more  suitable. 
Don't  forget  de  story  of  de  Mongoose!" 

"Nobody  can  get  ahead  of  you,  Fe 
lix.  Well,  it  is  a  good  t'ing.  It  is 
true,  her  fodder  was  de  King  at  las' 
year's  Carnival  —  an'  it  is  lightning 
striking  twice  in  de  same  place;  an' 
yet-" 

"  And  yet/'  the  American  interrupted, 
"  and  yet  it  will  sometimes  strike  twice 
in  the  same  place  —  if  the  attraction  is 
sufficient.  I  have  a  friend  who  has  a 
summer  home  in  the  Tennessee  moun 
tains  which  was  twice  struck  —  three 
times,  nearly.  That  is  the  house  next 
door  got  it  the  third  time.  And  then 
they  began  to  investigate,  and  they 
found  the  mountain  full  of  iron  —  iron 
convertible  into  gold." 
[174] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

"  Well,  and  our  man  of  iron,  let  us 
hope  he  may  prove  always  an  attrac 
tion—for  bolts  of  good  fortune  !" 

"  A  wish  that  may  come  true;  if  re 
ports  be  correct,  he  is  rapidly  turning 
into  gold,"  said  the  American.  "  I  am 
told  that  he  has  found  salt  in  immense 
deposits  on  his  island— and  that  he  has 
resumed  the  work  begun  just  before 
the  war— that  of  opening  up  the  place." 

"  Oh,  yas.  'T  is  true.  Over  a  hundred 
t'ousand  dollars  he  has  already  put  in— 
an'  as  much  more  ready  to  drop.  Mais 
it  is  fairyland  !  An'  me,  /  was  finking 
too— sometimes  I  t'ink  a  little  myself 
—I  was  finking  dat  if —I  say  if  some 
time  his  daughter  would  be  de  Comus 
Queen,  not  insinuating  anything,  you 
know  — no  allusion  to  de  bird— w'at  a 
fine  house-party  dey  could  have  now, 
eh?  Dey  could  invite  de  royal  party, 
maids  of  honor,  and  so  forf — whoever 
is  rich  enough  to  lose  so  much  time— 

"  T'ink  of  sailing  up  de  new  canal  on 
de  barge  — " 

"  An'  under  de  bridge—" 
[175] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

"  No,  not  de  bridge.  He  will  never 
touch  dat.  He  has  made  a  new  plan, 
entering  another  way.  Dat  span  of  de 
bridge  he  commenced— it  is  standing 
beside  de  beautiful  w'ite  marble  tomb 
—to  hold  his  family.  His  wife  she  is 
dere,  an'  de  oP  negroes  w'at  care  for 
his  chil'— dey  are  laying  in  one  corner, 
wid  also  a  small  monument." 

"Are  you  sure  dey  are  dere?" 

"I  have  seen  de  monument,  I  tell 
you." 

"  Well,  Harold  he  was  always  senti 
mental,  if  you  will.  I  suppose  dat 
broken  bridge  is,  as  he  says— it  is 
history,  and  he  needs  to  keep  it  before 
him,  not  to  be  too  rash.  Maybe  so. 
Who  can  tell?  Two  boys  in  de  war,  it 
was  enough— if  he  had  stopped  to  t'ink." 

"Yas— mais  de  barge,  de  Cleopatra; 
dey  say  she  is  be'-u-tif ul ! " 

"Cleopatra!  For  w'at  he  di'n'  name 
her  somet'ing  sensible?" 

"Dat  is  not  only  sensible— it  is  diplo 
matic.  You  know,  w'en  a  man  has  only 
a  daughter  and  a  step-wife— w'at  is  de 
[176] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

matter  wid  me  to-night?  You  under 
stand  me.  I  say,  in —well,  in  some  cases, 
to  discriminate,  it  is  enough  to  drive  a 
man  to—" 

"Oh,  don't  say  dat,  Felix." 

"Let  me  finish,  will  you?  I  say  it  is 
one  of  dose  indelicate  situations  dat 
drive  a  man  to  dodge!  An'  w'en  he 
can  dodge  into  history  and  romance  at 
once,  so  much  de  better  !  An'  Cleo 
patra,  it  sound  well  for  a  barge.  An' 
so,  really,  if  de  beautiful  daughter 
should  be  de  queen  an'  dey  could  ar 
range  one  house-party—" 

"Suppose,  Felix,  ol'  man,  you  would 
bring  out  yo'  magnolia-tree  once  more, 
you  don't  t'ink  de  li'P  bird  would  come 
again  an'  stan'  on  one  limb  an'  may&e— " 

"  Ah,  no.  I  am  sure  not.  If  dey  had 
a  grain  of  salt  in  dat  story,  I  would  try. 
I  would  put  it  on  his  tail.  Mais,  how 
can  you  catch  a  bird  widout  salt?  " 

So  idly,  playfully,  the  talk  rippled  on, 
ever  insensibly  flavored  with  rich  ro 
mance  of  life,  even  as  the  fitful  breeze 
[177] 


THE   RIVER'S   CHILDREN 

skirting  the  shores  held,  in  shy  sus 
pension,  an  occasional  hint  of  orange- 
blossoms  or  of  the  Cuban  fruits  which, 
heaping  the  luggers  in  the  slanting  sun, 
laid  their  gay  bouquets  of  color  against 
the  river's  breast. 

It  is  many  years  since  the  maid 
Agnes  Le  Due,  on  her  way  to  corona 
tion  at  the  carnival,  stood  while  the 
sun  went  down  in  all  her  vestal  beauty 
on  deck  of  the  Laurel  Hill,  and  smiled 
through  tears  of  tenderness  at  life  as 
half  revealed  to  her. 

Many  things  are  changed  since  then, 
and  yet  the  great  river  flows  on,  all  un 
heeding. 

Laden  to  their  guards,  so  that  their 
weighty  cargoes  of  cotton  and  sugar, 
traveling  to  mill  and  to  market,  are  wet 
with  the  spray  of  playful  condescension, 
panting  ships  of  commerce,  some  flying 
foreign  colors,  still  salute  each  other  in 
passing,  with  ever  a  word  of  solicitude 
as  to  milady's  health. 

Old  Lady  Mississippi,  is  she  high  or 
low  in  spirits  ?  And  will  her  hand  of 
[178] 


THE  RIVER'S  CHILDREN 

benediction  turn  to  smite  and  to 
despoil  ? 

But,  whether  she  be  obdurate  or 
kindly,  hysterical  or  melancholy,  or  so 
serene  as  to  invite  the  heavens,  life  and 
love  and  song  are  hers. 

Uniting  while  she  seems  to  divide, 
bringing  together  whom  she  appears  to 
separate,  a  raft  of  logs  contributed  by 
her  grace  affording  free  passage  the 
length  of  her  realm  to  whoever  will 
take  it,  paying  no  toll,  she  invites  Ro 
mance  to  set  sail  under  the  stars  in 
primal  simplicity,  eschewing  the  "bridal 
chambers  "  of  white  and  gold  which  lie 
in  the  hearts  of  all  the  busy  steamers, 
no  matter  how  otherwise  prosaic  their 
personalities. 

And  still,  afloat  and  alongshore, 
astride  a  molasses-barrel  or  throwing 
dice  between  the  cotton-bales,  taking 
no  thought  of  the  morrow,  the  negro 
sings: 

"  Cometh  our  fount  of  every  blessing ! " 


[179] 


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